


Mirror of the Mind

by Kagedtiger



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal - Fandom, Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: 1900s, M/M, Supernatural Creatures, massive world-building
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-12
Updated: 2016-10-08
Packaged: 2018-02-25 02:47:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 34,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2605760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kagedtiger/pseuds/Kagedtiger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In early 1900s Baltimore, Doctor Hannibal Lecter, investigator of supernatural beings, discovers a young man at the local theater with an astonishing ability to both read and project emotions. For once, it seems, something has dropped into his lap that is entirely new to his experience.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Rahbenshtag

**Author's Note:**

> "The mirrors in your mind can reflect the best of yourself. Not the worst of someone else." 
> 
> \- Hannibal Lecter  
> Episode 2, Season 1: _Amuse-Bouche_

The lights in the theater dim, and a hush falls over the audience. Hannibal shifts, and feels faint disapproval tug at the corner of his mouth. Though he understands that the new electric lights are safer, he misses the living flicker of gas lamps - the organic heated glow that makes these electric lights seem flat and buzzing by comparison. There is a certain unreality to them. When a gaslight dimmed, you felt like you were being let in on an intimate secret. When the electric lights dim, all that happens is that the room is a bit darker.

Two guards appear on the stage - Bernardo, come to relieve Francisco at his post. They speak their lines passably well, but Hannibal has seen much better performances than that offered by this tired, poor playhouse. Even the musty wood of the stage seems to be giving only a half-hearted performance, creaking unpleasantly at odd intervals when the actors are not careful enough with their footing.

Hannibal glances over at Alana next to him, but her eyes are focused on the stage. She seems no more impressed by the current performance than Hannibal is, but her anticipation is clear. She knows what they’re here for, has seen it before. Judging from her mounting excitement, Hannibal imagines it must be quite impressive. He sighs silently and leans back, drawing up his patience.

The ghost of the elder Hamlet enters, portentous and terribly acted, and departs once more, leaving the other characters all a-flutter. No effort has been made at any sort of production value; the king sweeps onto stage from the wings in white costume and white facepaint, and leaves across in the other direction. Not even a simple trapdoor use gives any indication that the character is anything other than a wandering albino. Hannibal rolls his eyes.

The scene ends, and the lights go black for the set change to the second scene. Alana sits forward suddenly, her hand grabbing Hannibal’s wrist and squeezing. He glances at her once more, but even in the dark her attention on the stage is rapt. Hannibal starts to lean towards her to whisper, but then he feels it. He glances at the stage.

The lights come back up, and Hannibal’s attention is consumed, his condescension for the theater forgotten. Even before he speaks, even as King Claudius’s monologue drones on, Hannibal’s eyes are fixed on Hamlet. He knows the young man can be no other - even without speaking, this Hamlet radiates grief, mourning his father, as well as a sickly adolescent hatred for the man in front of him, at once petulant and agonizing.

Hannibal is not usually a man of strong emotion, and yet he feels the bile rise in his throat. He hates Claudius, in a way he has not hated anyone in a long time. He wants to kill that man for stealing away Hamlet’s mother, for disrespecting the Elder Hamlet. His sickness stretches towards her, too, betrayal burning in him like acid. He feels a desperate longing for the past, for a way to turn back time and undo the tragedy of his existence. And all of this simply by looking at the young man on stage with his tousled brown hair and hidden, defensive eyes.

He feels Alana nudge him slightly, bringing him back to reality and only now revealing how entirely swept up into the character’s emotions he had become. He turns to her and she smiles, her expression equal parts understanding and triumph. “I told you,” she murmurs.

“So you did,” Hannibal admits. Looking around, the entire audience is just as enchanted - there is none of the usual hollering and clapping that he would expect from an audience of such meager sophistication. He allows his attention to be drawn back inexorably to the man on stage, even as Hamlet speaks for the first time. Waves of emotion sweep over Hannibal, deeper than he has experienced in ages. He is rapt with fascination, watching Hamlet’s every move. 

Even as the play continues and every other aspect of the production fails to live up to its star, Hannibal remains entranced. With every word of dialogue he feels Hamlet’s pain, the torture of his indecision, the paranoia within him. He feels these things as though they were real - more real, in fact, than if he were feeling them himself. The emotions bloom in him like color, cut through him like a swift wind, fall upon his shoulders gently, like a cloak. Whatever the scene calls for, this young Hamlet plays the emotions within like a skilled musician at an instrument, weaving them around his audience and enveloping them, forcing them to join right alongside him, bringing them with him into the story.

By the time they reach intermission, Hannibal is utterly certain that the man is not natural. Hannibal is not certain he has ever felt his own emotions so profoundly, let alone someone else’s. He is thoughtfully silent as the orchestra strikes up a lively tune for the interval.

Alana nudges him once more. “What do you think?” she asks quietly.

“Shtag genus,” Hannibal says, as though this was not obvious. “He has no awareness of his own abilities?” 

Alana shakes her head. “Not that I could tell. Unless he’s manipulating me somehow - I’m not sure I’d be able to notice. You felt how powerful he is. But no, as far as I could tell he thinks everyone feels as strongly as he does, and he puts his projections down to acting and nothing more. He has difficulty interacting with others, as you might imagine, and his isolation has kept him from comparing himself too closely to humans.”

“Hmm,” Hannibal murmurs. “Perhaps we should keep it that way for now. No sense alerting him to the issue until we’ve made a more comprehensive study. This analysis may prove a complex one.”

She nods. “I’m glad Jack caught this so early. If he keeps this up, he’s not going to stay hidden for long. What do you think? Empath? Channeler?”

“Uncertain,” Hannibal hedges. More study is needed. It is too soon to be definitive, but Hannibal has the exciting, breathless intimation that this might be - for the first time - something new.

 

 _Hamlet_ is a long play, but the time slips past almost unnoticed. When Hamlet dies in Horatio’s arms, Hannibal feels a tear track down his cheek. He is moved, profoundly, and rather amazed at himself for being so. It is an extraordinary gift this young man has. When the curtain falls, Hannibal is the first out of his seat for a standing ovation - though by no means the only.

The emotional projection radiating from the mysterious actor is much lessened when he comes on stage for his bow, but it is still clearly present. Hannibal wonders how many unsuspecting young men and women have fallen in love with him, merely from watching his performance, swept up in their empathy.

As the audience begins to trickle out of the theater, Alana leads them back to a small door in a side room marked ‘Backstage.’ She doesn’t press through, but rather has them wait, flanking the entrance like guards. Hannibal closes his eyes, centering himself in calmness. When dealing with creatures of the shtag genus, he finds it is always best to approach the subject with serenity. This is not difficult for Hannibal.

After a few moments, the young man - changed and minus his stage makeup - exits the backstage area and immediately flinches back upon seeing them. He looks startled, like an entrapped animal, despite the fact that the room is large and Hannibal and Alana are not nearly blocking his escape.

Alana steps forward, warm and smiling. The young man seems to relax marginally upon recognizing her, his expression changing to a tentative polite smile. “Miss... Bloom, was it?” His voice is soft, reserved, but deeply masculine.

Hannibal observes him in silence. He gives off a strange impression - it is not shyness, not exactly. His words are awkward and clipped, as though he is not used to speaking with people: self-conscious but not afraid. Looking at him, Hannibal feels a profound sense of loneliness that does not come from himself.

Alana smiles and puts a careful hand on the young man’s shoulder, as gentle as soothing a frightened animal. “Will Graham,” she says softly, “I’d like you to meet my friend, Doctor Hannibal Lecter. He was very impressed by your performance and wanted to meet you.”

“Oh,” Graham mumbles. His face turns towards Hannibal, but Hannibal notices that he conspicuously avoids eye contact. “Nice to meet you.” The tone of his words is not encouraging; he does not offer his hand to shake. The strange sense of loneliness increases - Hannibal can see why this man might have trouble making friends. To be so lonely in his presence would make nearly anyone want to flee to more warming company. But of course, Hannibal is not just anyone.

“A pleasure,” says Hannibal, and watches Graham startle slightly at his accent. “Your performance was exquisite, I must say,” he continues sincerely. “I would very much like an opportunity to speak with you about your craft. Perhaps I can offer you a ride home?”

“Oh, ah,” Graham shakes his head. “I live above the theater. Part of the deal with my contract. I don’t need to go anywhere.”

Hannibal smiles, undaunted. “A warm meal then, perhaps? Please do allow me to treat you. I understand the salary for actors does not often allow for much indulgence.”

“Umm,” says Graham, clearly uncomfortable with the offer. But he’s hungry - Hannibal can feel it, and not because Graham is projecting. Hannibal is always aware of hunger in those around him.

“I’m afraid I must insist,” says Hannibal firmly. “Are you at your leisure to accompany me now?”

Will throws a sidelong glance at Alana, not catching her eye, but evaluating. Hannibal feels as though he is gentling a wild animal, trying to coax it to eat from his hand. He makes an effort to maintain his calmness, to allow none of his excitement to bleed through. He is rewarded for his projected stillness by a minute relaxing of Will’s shoulders.

“I suppose I could eat,” Will mutters.

“Excellent,” says Hannibal, and gestures graciously for both Will and Alana to precede him down the hall. They do so, Alana taking the lead and Will slouching uncomfortably between them, shoulders hunched.

When they get to the door, Alana turns to face them. “Well, I should head home. Your performance was wonderful tonight, as always, Will!”

Hannibal feels a brief moment of panic before realizing that the emotion comes not from him but from the young man at his side. Will swallows uncertainly. “You’re... you’re not coming with us?”

Alana smiles and shakes her head. “I’m afraid I have a lot of work to do back home. But you two enjoy your meal! Hannibal has the best taste, I’m sure he’ll treat you to something lovely.” This is not, of course, the real reason for her departure - she wants to give Hannibal the opportunity to study the strange young man privately. Will does not appear reassured.

As she leaves, Hannibal can feel Will’s longing for her comforting presence. She exudes a sort of maternal indulgence that the young man probably finds soothing. When she is out of sight, Will casts a suspicious sideways glance at Hannibal. 

“You don’t seem to... want anything,” Will mutters, apparently to himself. Hannibal judges it safe to ignore the comment, and instead gestures to where his coach stands waiting. 

Will looks askance at the carriage. “Private coach?” he asks. “What, no automobile? Isn’t that what all the trendy rich are doing these days?”

“I abhor the sounds and smells of the wretched things,” Hannibal admits. “A coach is much neater, its movement coming from the life energy of the animal that draws it, rather than some arcane nonsense of gears and fire.”

Will doesn’t respond. Hannibal feels his continued curiosity as Will enters the coach, peering at Hannibal in sidelong glance after stolen, sidelong glance. Hannibal has a quiet murmured word with the driver and then steps up into the coach behind Will.

The door shuts behind them, and the carriage begins to move. Alone at last. Let the research begin.

Hannibal smiles softly, but continues to modulate his emotions. Will seems almost suspicious of his calm, but Hannibal is used to surprise from shtag. They are not used to being around those who have so much control over their own psyches. He will relax soon enough. At least, Hannibal hopes so. “How long have you been with the theater?” Hannibal asks him. 

Will shrugs. He tilts his head so that his shaggy hair falls down to cover his eyes - a barrier to hide behind. “Not long,” he murmurs. “A couple months.”

Hannibal tilts his head, curious at this young man who refuses to look at him. “And do you like the work?” Hannibal tries to project trustworthiness. _Have faith in me. I can help you._

Will shakes his head roughly, then looks surprised at himself at the honesty. Nevertheless, he continues, “No. I guess I’m good at it. They tell me I’m good, anyway. But I hate feeling everyone - feeling everyone’s eyes on me. Staring at me. It makes me feel like they’re all trying to live in my head at the same time. It’s cacophonous.” Will sneaks another glance at him. “Not you though. You’re very quiet.”

Hannibal wonders if Will realizes how strange he would sound to a normal person. Perhaps, as Alana said, he thinks everyone feels as he feels. Hannibal smiles. “Thank you,” he says, taking Will’s words as the compliment he knows they are, despite the surly tone in which they were delivered. “The world is too full of voices for those who cannot help but listen.”

Again Will peeks at him with one of his strange, darting glances, then turns away to stare out the window. “Where are we going?” he asks. His words ignore Hannibal’s comment, but Hannibal can see that it struck true in the contemplative carry of the young man’s shoulders. Will probably doesn’t realize how very easy his empathy makes it for others to read him. Or perhaps he does realize it, and simply does not have enough control to hide himself.

“The Divine Rose,” Hannibal informs him.

“What?” Will’s eyes widen, and in an unguarded moment of shock he makes accidental eye contact with Hannibal for just a moment. “I-I can’t eat there!”

Hannibal cocks his head, amused at Will’s spluttering embarrassment. “Is there something about the place you find distasteful?”

“I-I can’t-” Will shakes his head. “It’s too expensive! They- they wouldn’t even let someone like me in there! Eating there would cost me- would cost more than I make in a month! I can’t...” He trails off into his own bewilderment.

“As you may recall, the meal was offered as a gift,” Hannibal reminds him. “You are under no financial obligation. Allow me to give this to you - a fine meal in satisfaction of a hunger is one of the greatest pleasures we can experience.”

Will’s gaze fixes on him, sharp and focused from under the scowl of his brows, staring at roughly chest height. “I’m not sleeping with you,” he says, apparently apropos of nothing, accusation in his tone.

Hannibal’s eyebrows rise, and he looks at Will, faintly amused and taken aback. “Certainly not. What brought up that consideration?”

Will shakes his head, but the scowl doesn’t leave. “People think if they’re nice to me, if they buy me nice things, I’ll sleep with them. I’m not a whore, Doctor Lecter, so if you think you can buy your way into my affections you should just let me out here and I’ll walk home.”

Hannibal lets out a huffed laugh. Every moment in Will’s presence is a new surprise. He shakes his head in amusement, highly entertained. “I’m sure that must be tiring, but I can assure you, I have no such designs. I prefer to eat well, and you are my guest. Please do not insult my honor by implying such a base ulterior motive.” No, Hannibal’s ulterior motives are much more complex than mere lust.

Though he is clearly embarrassed by his own assumptions, Will does not apologize. Instead he goes quiet again. Clearly his natural inclination around strangers is to withdraw - unsurprising. Hannibal allows him his silence.

He observes Will carefully as their journey continues, but the young man is quite adept at ignoring the attention. The only thing that gives away his awareness of Hannibal’s eyes on him is his constant nervous fidgeting - tapping fingers and bouncing knee - as well as a general low-grade discomfort that emanates from him in waves.

When they arrive at the restaurant, Will’s discomfort at least shifts focus from Hannibal to the formidable building with its glass doors and fine marble facade. He shrinks at Hannibal’s side, as though desperate to hide behind him. But he keeps his chin up, jaw clenched. Hannibal thinks Will must be very brave, to live as constantly in fear as he does and not let it overpower him.

When they enter, the maitre’d takes one look at Will and raises a condescending eyebrow. “I’m sorry Sir,” he begins, “but we have a strict dress policy. If you do not have a suit jacket, I’m afraid I must ask-”

Hannibal clears his throat, drawing close to Will and peering at the maitre’d down the length of his nose. He allows coldness to seep into his expression, and places a clear and possessive arm around Will’s shoulders. The maitre’d notices him for the first time, and is immediately simpering and apologetic.

“Oh, Doctor Lecter, forgive me, I did not realize this man was your guest.” The man bites his lip. Despite his obvious desire to please Hannibal, he seems to be having a tough time getting over the hurdle of policy. It clearly rankles him to waive the rules, even for a patron as respected as the doctor.

“I’m sorry,” the maitre’d begins warily, “but your companion’s attire-”

Hannibal stares into the man’s eyes until they go hollow. “Will be fine,” he finishes for him, his voice smooth. The command ripples underneath his words like a shockwave.

“Will be fine,” the maitre’d repeats, sound dazed. “Allow me to see your table prepared for you. One moment please.” He stumbles off, shaking his head slightly as though he’s just woken.

“How did you do that?” Will murmurs.

“One must never underestimate the power of reputation,” Hannibal assures him. “If your acting career continues in its most assured trajectory, perhaps you too will be a guest of note at such an establishment.”

Will glances around at the crowded dining room. “I’m not sure I could bring myself to eat here on any kind of regular basis, even if I could afford it,” he murmurs. He looks like he expects the guests to turn on them at any moment, leaping to tear them to shreds like angry dogs. The people nearest to them are clearly catching some of his discomfort. Hannibal catches several people at nearby tables looking around suspiciously, feeling an inexplicable chill up their spines.

Hannibal smiles, and the maitre’d returns to lead them to their table. Will attracts stares as they move through the room, out of place in such a fine establishment, given his plain clothes and unkempt appearance. Hannibal wishes they’d had time to get him a proper suit before this venture, but he is already wary of frightening Will off, and a gift of fine clothing would probably do just that. Still, there will be time for such things later - Hannibal is mortally certain they will be seeing more of each other.

When they are seated and provided menus, Will’s face falls - the menu is in French, which he clearly has some difficulty interpreting. Most of those with a taste for fine dining and the funds to indulge in it, even English-speakers, know enough French to recognize the names of various dishes. But Will is clearly not from such circles, having neither the taste for it nor the means. Hannibal finds himself pitying the poor thing, before realizing that this is because Will is projecting his own cynical self-pity. Remarkable, to have gifts at once so subtle and so overwhelming. Hannibal is fascinated anew.

“Would you like me to order for the both of us?” Hannibal offers kindly. He expects a grateful sigh of relief from his guest. To his surprise, however, Will straightens up, his pride offended.

“I’ll manage,” he says gruffly.

The waiter arrives and Hannibal orders the almond-crusted duck breast with chantarelle salad. Will orders a bouillabaisse in a passable accent, tinted slightly with the unmistakable tones of Creole - Will must have some ties to the American south. No wonder he chose seafood, then, although Hannibal happens to notice it’s also one of the cheaper items on the menu. He lets this pass without comment - if Will is endeavoring not to owe him anything, then let him do so. At least for now.

“So,” says Hannibal when their waiter has departed. “Tell me about yourself.”

“Why?” asks Will roughly. Even were he not projecting, his posture and tone make it clear that he is regretting accepting Hannibal’s invitation. He feels humiliated by his surroundings, ashamed and bitter of his own meager state. And he is in the awkward company of strangers, which does not sit easily with him. Hannibal wonders if there is any in the world of men whom Will does not consider a stranger.

Hannibal does not hold these things against him. “I greatly admired your performance tonight,” he says truthfully. “I had hoped we might become friends.”

“I don’t find you that interesting,” Will admits bluntly. On the surface it seems an attack, the height of rudeness. But Hannibal is listening very carefully, and to him it sounds simply, painfully honest. Hannibal smiles.

“You will,” he assures the young man. “But surely speaking is at least preferable to eating in silence?”

Will looks like he disagrees with this sentiment, and does not respond. Hannibal tries a different tack. “Well then, perhaps I should guess?” He tilts his head at Will, appraising. 

“You are the son of a poor laborer. Used to manual work yourself, judging by the state of your hands. You traveled a lot as a child, mainly in the southern states, never staying in one place long enough to put down roots. Upon your father’s death and finding yourself alone, you had a crisis of existence looking at your future, and decided on the necessity of change. You came north hoping to seek different viewpoints, but found people here just as difficult to relate to, and additionally less kind. You auditioned for the part at the theater because they offered free lodging and you were having difficulty finding other work to support yourself. The owner recognized your clear and obvious talent, and here we are.”

Will’s eyes are wide with astonishment. Hannibal allows another small smile. “Was that correct?”

Will swallows, remembering himself. “Not all of it,” he mutters, clearly self-conscious.

“I’m surprised you chose the theater, given your distaste for it, and for human contact in general,” Hannibal remarks.

Will sighs, evidently realizing that he will not be able to escape the conversation. “It never seemed like the sort of thing I’d do to me either, to be honest. But, like you said... I thought maybe change would be good for me. Boy was that a mistake.”

“I admire your attempt to push your own boundaries,” Hannibal says honestly. “Socialization must be difficult for you.”

Will levels one of his copious skeptical looks at Hannibal. “How is it that you seem to have so much insight, Doctor Lecter? You’ve barely even met me.”

“I am a student of the mind,” says Hannibal. “It has been my study to observe, especially those who are unique, outside the normal stream of human behavior - as you yourself are. The mind works in very predictable ways, generally speaking. It’s always rare and refreshing to find one who does not fit the common molds.”

“I’m not some curiosity for you to study,” says Will, eyebrows furrowing.

“Of course not,” Hannibal assures. “Perhaps I misspoke. I meant only that you are a refreshing change of pace from the dullness of the general population. I do not often get a chance to meet someone of your caliber and gifts, and I find the prospect quite engaging.”

Will doesn’t exactly respond to the flattery by blushing and blossoming, but he becomes marginally less surly - at least enough to maintain polite conversation until their food arrives.

When Will begins eating, it’s another story entirely. At the first bite, Hannibal can feel Will’s entire body relax, even from across the table. Will makes a quickly-stifled noise of helpless pleasure that runs through Hannibal’s veins like lightning.

It is a strange and pleasant sensation for Hannibal, feeling his own hunger gratified and simultaneously feeling that same satisfaction warmly radiated back to him from across the table. Will was clearly very hungry, and is not used to such rich and heady flavors. It makes Hannibal want to cook for him, to be the cause of that gold and glowing satisfaction.

Hannibal quickly leashes in his desires, knowing that Will will sense them if he is not careful. But Will seems utterly distracted by the food, savoring it with all the enthusiasm of someone who recognizes the true value of having enough to eat. For all the people Hannibal has known who have claimed to be gourmands, few have ever truly and blissfully enjoyed their food the way Will seems to now. For Hannibal, who is forever hungry, being able to share in that enjoyment is a startling and powerful gift.

The pleasure of the food seems to lighten Will’s mood somewhat, and although they do not speak much while enjoying their meals, the feeling of guarded discomfort between them eases. Hannibal eats slowly, savoring Will’s enjoyment almost more than his own. By the time they have finished, Will is comfortable enough to offer a sheepish smile.

“Thank you,” he says, still somewhat sullen, but honest. “I don’t usually get to eat anything that good.”

“You are most welcome. You should visit my home some time,” Hannibal offers. “Fine cooking is something of a hobby of mine, and it would be my pleasure to feed you.”

Will looks dubious, but in a good enough humor to give Hannibal the benefit of the doubt. The bill arrives, and Hannibal signs his name to it without letting Will see the price - he keeps a running account with this establishment, as he does with many dining establishments in the city; they know how to bill his estate. 

Hannibal gestures graciously for Will to precede him as they return to his carriage for the ride home. It’s mid-Autumn, and their breath is already visible in the cold dark, a hanging mist that rises to obscure their faces. Will rubs his hands together at the sudden transition from the restaurant’s warm interior into the night chill.

Will is quiet on the ride back, his head leaning against the glass window of the carriage, watching the play of light over the empty city streets. Hannibal watches him surreptitiously out of the corner of his eye. He knows far more of Will now than he did at the beginning of the evening, but not enough to make a positive identification. Will requires further study. Though he may yet be something obscure and difficult to recognize, Hannibal is becoming more and more sure that his initial instinct was correct - Will is something new. Something unclassified.

They are halfway back to the theater when Hannibal is startled by Will’s sudden fierce grip on his wrist. He looks over at Will to find that the young man has gone pale. His breathing is ragged and labored, and his fingers are icy cold where they clutch Hannibal’s wrist.

“Stop,” Will says hoarsely, nearly a whisper. Then, louder, “Stop the coach!”

Hannibal bangs on the wall to signal the driver, and the coach slows to a halt. Will’s breaths come in quick, hysterical pants. 

“She’s so scared.” Will’s eyes are wide, unseeing. “She’s so scared. We have to help her. Oh my god. The _fear_.”

Hannibal watches him in earnest, cataloging his every reaction. “Who is frightened, Will?” he asks intently.

Will doesn’t respond, already opening the carriage door and clambering out. Hannibal follows, struggling to keep up as Will takes off at a dead run. They seem to be in some kind of mercantile district - German street, if Hannibal is not mistaken. Will’s sprint takes him towards a large building on the corner: some sort of storefront or clerical office full of darkened glass windows that reflect the street lights ominously like row upon row of vacant eyes.

The building is clearly closed, and should by all rights be locked, but as they approach Hannibal notices that the door nearest them hangs ajar, the darkened interior beckoning like a dangerous promise. Will hardly even slows down to cross the threshold, throwing the door open wide enough to barrel through. Hannibal is moments behind him, following him through this door and then another, and then is forced to come to a swift stop when he sees Will frozen in place, staring.

The tableau in front of them is one that was clearly not expecting interruption. In the center of a dark store-room, a middle-aged man stands staring at them, a young girl of perhaps seventeen or so clasped to his chest, facing outward. He is holding a knife at her throat. The girl’s eyes are wide with panic, her hands clutching at the arm with which the man pins her shoulders. They were clearly struggling, but both have gone still at the unexpected entrance, staring in confusion at the strangers who have just barreled into their midst.

“Stop,” Will growls, and Hannibal can feel the fear radiating from him in waves so thick it feels as though the room is full of fog. Whatever distress this girl is feeling, Will has absorbed it and amplified it to a deafening roar. Hannibal cannot tell how much of the fear originates from the girl and how much is Will’s own, fueling it. 

And yet, feeling this much fear, he ran _towards_ the danger, rather than from it.

“Put down the knife,” Will orders. His voice is shaking, but with rage.

The man with the knife licks his lips, looking indecisive. In his arms, the girl whimpers. The man’s hand tightens on the knife handle.

The man starts to slide the knife across the girl’s throat, parting flesh and releasing a torrent of blood. The fear in the room explodes, blasts forth and echoes and ricochets and builds until it is a physical force. Hannibal feels it like a wind against him.

And then, the words. Will does not speak, but places the words in the air, as physically present as though they were graven into stone in the center of the room. Hannibal hears them in his mind as clearly as if they had been roared by God himself.

**DIE.**

The man chokes, falters backward, collapsing like a puppet whose strings have been severed. The knife falls from his hand before it can complete its fatal cut. 

The girl collapses too, blood gushing from her neck. Will rushes to her side, trying desperately to staunch the bleeding with his hands. They tremble badly, and spurts of red pulse out from beneath his fingers. The girl makes a horrible wet choking sound.

While Will is occupied, Hannibal reaches into a pocket for his handkerchief. Wrapping his hand carefully, he grasps the handle of the discarded knife. He rolls the still body of the man onto its back and stares at the blank, unseeing eyes. Dead. Indisputably. Hannibal doesn’t need to check the pulse to be certain, though he does anyway for the sake of being thorough. Satisfied that the man is beyond saving, Hannibal plunges the knife into his heart. 

Job finished, Hannibal returns to bloody pair on the floor, touching Will’s still-shaking hands to get him to let go. Will collapses backwards in relief at the reprieve, though his trembling does not cease. The air is still thick with his fear. 

Hannibal ties the handkerchief expertly around the girl’s neck, tight enough to muffle the bleeding. Then he lifts the girl up in his arms - she’s unconscious now, and surprisingly light. “Come,” Hannibal says to the shaking wreck of Will Graham. “We must get her to a hospital immediately.”

Will is at least in control of himself enough to follow orders, and staggers to his feet. They return to the coach as fast as they can under the weight of Hannibal’s burden. 

 

Despite being still conscious, Will seems to be largely catatonic for the duration of their ride. Hannibal’s coachman knows the city well, and hurries them to the nearest hospital at a desperate clip. Once the girl is in the safe, professional hands of the staff, Hannibal can finally turn his attention to Will. The man is clearly elsewhere, having retreated somewhere into his own mind as a desperate act of self-preservation.

“Come,” Hannibal murmurs quietly to him. “We should get you cleaned up.”

A nurse directs them to the nearest restroom, and amongst the medical supplies stacked in the corner, Hannibal finds a large basin and some clean cloths. He fills the basin with warm water and wets the first cloth. Will has collapsed to the floor, his back to the wall of the small tile room. After glancing at him, Hannibal detours to lock the bathroom door before returning to kneel in front of Will and gently wipe the blood from the young man’s red-spattered face.

It is not until Will’s face is clean and Hannibal has moved onto his hands that Will finally speaks. “What happened?” he asks weakly.

“What do you remember?” Will’s mental state is clearly fragile, and Hannibal would not be surprised to find that he has blocked out the experience altogether.

“I felt how scared she was,” Will mumbles. “And then- and then we were there, and he was so full of hate, and love, and desperation, and she just- she was so terrified, and I just wanted it to stop, I wanted everything that he was to just- _stop_.” Will gulps harshly. “I killed him. How did I do that? I wanted him to die, and he just... died. How...?”

There is a whimper in his voice, a desperate plea for some kind of reasonable explanation. This is certainly not the way Hannibal would have preferred for Will to discover the truth of his own powers, but there seems little way around it now.

“Listen,” Hannibal says urgently. When Will’s gaze is still far off, he grabs the other man’s chin and forces their eyes to meet. Will startles. “Are you listening?” Hannibal demands. Will nods.

“If anyone asks - anyone, and they will ask - we came across the man holding the young woman at knifepoint. He tried to kill her, and you leapt in in an attempt to save the young woman’s life. You wrestled with him for the knife, and in the end you stabbed him in self-defense. Alright? That is what I will tell everyone, and you must tell them as well.”

Will shakes his head. “But that’s not what happened...”

“I know,” Hannibal assures him. “And I will explain to you what happened, but you must first promise me that you will follow my lead and report the story as I have told you.”

Will nods, a strange and desperate fear entering his eyes at Hannibal’s mention of an explanation. They stare at each other for a long moment, before Hannibal prompts, “Do you promise?”

“I will,” Will confirms, nodding again. “I promise. I’ll tell them I stabbed him. Just, please... tell me what happened. What I did.” His body sways slightly, rocking back and forth. Hannibal finishes cleaning Will’s hands and puts down the wet cloth, grabbing Will’s elbows. He tries to make his voice as soothing as possible, to project calm as he speaks.

“You are a creature from a group we call shtag. Your kind resonate with the most subtle of energies - life, time, emotion. You are similar to the creature we call empath. You absorb emotions from those around you, but you can also project your own emotions outward. It’s what makes you so breathtaking on stage. You make those around you feel what you feel. In that darkened room you felt that young woman’s fear. You projected that fear and your desires so strongly that you forced a man’s heart to stop beating. An amazing display. Unique among my experience.”

Will whimpers, and presses the heels of his hands into his eyes. “You’re saying I-I’m not human...” It’s not really a question, but it desperately wants to be. Hannibal can tell that Will wants him to deny it all, to tell him it’s all a joke, or that Hannibal was somehow mistaken. Will wants Hannibal to deny it with everything in him, but it’s impossible to ignore the horrible way it clicks into place, the way it suddenly offers explanations for any hundreds of things about himself that Will was never able to fully justify.

“No,” Hannibal confirms. “You are not.”

“H-how do you know all this?” Will asks shakily. “You said ‘we’. Who’s ‘we’?”

Hannibal dares to reach out a hand and adjust Will’s hair, stroking it back into some semblance of order from its current wild disarray. Will seems to respond to the touch, or at least to Hannibal’s calm, and relaxes fractionally.

“I am part of an organization responsible for classifying and monitoring creatures such as yourself. My colleagues will likely be here shortly, along with the police. I shall have to make a report about you, while you speak with the mundane authorities. We must be careful that our stories match.”

“So you were studying me, after all,” Will says, a humorless grimace of a smile gracing his lips.

“An unfortunate necessity,” Hannibal confirms with a smile. “But it is important that we do not let them know that you used your powers to kill that man. If you wish to maintain your freedom, they must think that you are no more than a man who feels the pain of others. They must not know the full extent of what you are capable.”

“Why would you protect me?” Will whispers. He has lowered his hands now from his eyes, but remains staring at them where they rest on his knees. “You said it’s your job to monitor me. Shouldn’t you tell them that I’m dangerous?”

“I don’t believe that is the truth,” says Hannibal. “What you experienced was a momentary lapse of control. With training, you can learn to manage your abilities. To keep from hurting anyone else. I don’t believe you or anyone else would be served by painting you a monster.”

Will is silent. A shudder rolls through him at the word ‘monster’ - clearly it hits home. After a long moment he stands. He glances in the mirror, pressing his hands once more to his face and splashing some cold water from the sink onto his cheeks and forehead. “Okay,” he mutters, apparently to himself. “Okay. Okay. Okay. You can do this.”

Hannibal stands behind him and places a comforting hand on Will’s shoulder. For a moment Will allows it, before striding with determination out of the bathroom and closing the door behind him.

Hannibal does not immediately follow him out, pausing instead to finish cleaning himself up. He is not nearly as blood-soaked as Will was, but there is still a large red smear on the side of his arm. He lifts the limb to his mouth and licks the blood away sensuously. The bright copper taste blooms on his tongue, lighting warmth all the way down to his stomach. He wishes there had been more time at the crime scene, more privacy. The violence of the evening has woken the Hunger in him, and he will have to find a meal soon. But not now. He marshals his self-control. There will be time for such things later.

Will is already speaking with the police when Hannibal finds his way back to the waiting room. The hospital had called them as soon as the young woman had been admitted. Jack Crawford also stands to one side, a large dark bull of a man at the edge of the crowd, glancing suspiciously around the room. He’s wearing a long coat and a hat that hides most of his features. For a man so imposing, he blends surprisingly well into the background. When he spots Hannibal he makes a direct line for him.

“We need to talk,” Jack hisses as soon as he’s close. He leads Hannibal off into a deserted corridor, glancing around to make sure they weren’t followed.

“That’s him, isn’t it?” Jack presses. “Will Graham. The shtag. You can feel the fear radiating off him. Did he do this?”

“Yes,” Hannibal confirms, “but not the way you think, Jack. He wrestled the knife from the man and stabbed him. There was no outburst to speak of.”

“What is he?” Jack demands, voice still low. “I’m sure you wanted more time to study him, but we need a species now. We need to know what measures to take.”

“He’s new, Jack,” Hannibal admits, leaving Jack slack-jawed. “We don’t have measures.”

“ _New_? He’s _new_? Are you sure?” Jack looks like he wants to reach out and shake Hannibal as he demands confirmation, but he restrains himself.

“I am very familiar with the shtag genus,” Hannibal reminds him.

“I know, I know.” Jack pinches the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut. “That’s why Alana wanted to bring you in on this in the first place. Okay. _New_. Jesus. Give me a preliminary report, then. Estimated rank?”

“E-0,” Hannibal hazards. “Nothing to be concerned about. He could use some training to control his projection, but other than that I believe him to be largely harmless.”

Jack sighs, and leans against the wall. “He’s a serial killer,” he says, leaving Hannibal momentarily confused before clarifying, “that man that the shtag killed. He’s been killing young women around the outskirts of the city, out in the rural areas. The police have been looking for him for months, apparently. Garrett Jacob Hobbs, is his name. Works for John Hurst and Co, commuting in to the city. Preliminary word is that the young woman with him was his daughter. If she dies, she’ll be the ninth in his string of victims.”

Hannibal nods, finally realizing why Jack seems so tired and tightly-strung. “No wonder you want to keep our business well away from this.”

Jack smiles wryly. “Well, if you’re sure he’s new, then he’s your discovery, Doctor. What are you going to name him? Any thoughts?”

Hannibal pauses for a moment, silent in contemplation. He remembers feeling the pleasure of Will’s easing hunger. He remembers the stone certainty with which he’d thought ‘DIE,’ and how the man across from them had been helpless but to obey. He remembers the desperate loneliness and indecision of Will’s Hamlet, the emotions projected all the more strongly because they mirrored Will’s own.

“Rahbenshtag,” Hannibal says finally.

Jack raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t comment on the name choice. “Alright. You’ll need to write up a report. File a new classification opening. Geeze. This’ll be the first new classification I’ve seen since I joined the organization, you realize that?”

“It is a rare opportunity,” Hannibal confirms.

“I’m assigning you as his monitor,” Jack says, a sudden but firm decision. “He knows you already, he’s less likely to spook. And that way you can have more time to observe, to confirm the rank. I hope to God you’re right, and he’s not dangerous. We do not need another D-plus rank right now. There’s a full moon coming up, and on top of that it’s been long enough since the Hound of the Chesapeake last struck that I’m expecting another visit soon.”

“The police still think it’s an animal?” Hannibal says, surprised to hear Jack using the much-mocked nickname.

Jack rolls his eyes. “You know police. Not an original thought in their tiny heads. It seems like the cleanest explanation to them. No one wants to believe that a human could be responsible for ripping people apart like that.”

“In a way, they’re right,” Hannibal points out.

Jack sighs again. “Look, the Hound is not my problem right now. This... rahbenshtag is. You think you can keep him under control for the time being?”

Hannibal nods. “Right now he is lost, searching for answers that he cannot explain. This is the first time he has seen the veil lifted. It will be difficult for him.”

“Bring him by headquarters, if you have to,” Jack offers. “If you’re that sure he’s not dangerous. Better to show a few cards than to push him into a nervous breakdown where he might hurt someone.”

“I agree wholeheartedly,” says Hannibal. In his mind he hears the stone cold word, more real than if it had been spoken: ‘DIE.’ And just like that, the man had dropped dead. Hannibal’s heart blooms with the possibilities. “You may rest assured, Jack. I will keep a watchful eye on our Mr. Graham.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning - I started closely researching this fic so it would be period-accurate to the early 1900s. (We're starting in 1903, for those who are curious.) But then I realized that if I had to do all the research, I would never get around to making myself actually write the thing, so instead the period-accuracy is going to be... spotty. So if that sort of thing really bothers you, you might want to just quit while you're ahead here.


	2. Bodies

There’s nothing Will wants more right now than to fall into his bed. He wants a profound, dead sleep, free from the endless circular thoughts screaming around and around his brain. It’s late - after midnight, for certain - and the relentless whispers of _‘killer,’ ‘monster,’ ‘freak,’_ won’t leave him alone. 

But the police seem endlessly full of questions. Over and over, they ask him the same details. 

_How did the man die?_

We fought for the knife. As I tried to wrench it out of his hand, it slipped and I stabbed him. 

_Are you sure he was going to kill the girl?_

He had the knife to her throat. She looked terrified. 

_Did you know the man, Garret Jacob Hobbs?_

No, never seen him before in my life.

_How did you find them?_

Will hesitates. Lecter is nowhere to be seen, and hadn’t mentioned whether it was safe to tell the truth here. Will’s instincts tell him that if Lecter wanted him to hide his powers, then the more discretion he uses the better.

“We heard raised voices,” he says, trying his best to sound as honest as possible. “It was a quiet night, so the sound carried.”

The police officer nods, writing something down in a notebook. At that moment, Lecter emerges from a nearby doorway trailing a large, dour-looking black man in a trenchcoat. Will wonders if this is the colleague Lecter had spoken of. Given the evaluating look the man gives him - a swift, piercing rake of eyes up and down the length of his body - he suspects so. He tries to look as nonthreatening as he can, though he suspects what he mostly looks now is exhausted. He’s running on fumes, and he’s sure it shows.

The man in the coat smirks at him humorlessly, as though he’s just been given news that he suspected was coming. He leans over to Lecter for a moment and murmurs something in his ear. Lecter nods serenely and approaches.

“Ah, Doctor Lecter!” says one of the two police officers, a young man with red hair and a long, stretched-looking face. Will shouldn’t be surprised that Lecter knows the policemen. Of course he does. 

“Such a terrible business,” the officer continues. “So sorry to hear you were involved in something like this. I hope you weren’t injured...?”

Will rolls his eyes. He’d gotten no such well-wishes. His shoulders feel heavy, like he’s wearing a coat of iron. This night has been one disaster after another, and he just wants to go _home_. 

“Excuse me, Gentlemen,” says Lecter in his smooth, aristocratic accent, “but my companion has had a rather trying evening, and I’m sure he’d like to be on his way.”

“Oh,” says the officer, looking back and forth between Lecter and Will. For a moment he seems unsure of himself, but Will watches him meet Lecter’s eyes, watches Lecter stare at him for a long heartbeat of a moment - one of those faint, almost-there smiles on Lecter’s face that seem to forever be flitting around the edge of his expression - and then watches the officer’s face clear up like a sky after rain. “Of course. We don’t want to be a bother. If you could just come down to the station at your leisure tomorrow and make a statement-”

“Certainly,” says Lecter, and without waiting for the officer to continue, plants a firm arm around Will’s shoulders and steers him towards the door. Will doesn’t usually take kindly to being man-handled, but at this point he’s so tired that even walking on his own is more of a lead-footed stumble. He yawns as Lecter leads him down the stairs and out the hospital exit. Lecter looks over his shoulder as he goes, and Will catches him exchanging a last glance with his trenchcoated companion before the door shuts behind them.

“Who was that?” Will murmurs, his eyelids heavy. Now that the adrenaline and fear have drained from his muscles, he feels liquid and heavy. He knows the panic is still there, waiting, but it doesn’t rule his body at the moment. He will have plenty of time to indulge in it and the accompanying neuroses tomorrow, after he’s slept.

“That was Jack Crawford, the head of the Baltimore unit. I report to him regarding your... status.”

Will can tell Lecter is hiding things, not saying as much as he knows. He can’t bring himself to resent it though; he’s not sure he could process any more information at this point anyway. Not with his brain only stumbling through the motions of consciousness. He yawns again.

“Let me take you home,” Lecter offers. “It will be faster by coach, and in this state you could easily be mugged and discarded in an alley.”

“Unless I’m more dangerous than the mugger,” Will mutters, but he lets Lecter help him up into the coach. They’re not far from the theater now - it should be a short ride.

Will has nearly fallen asleep against the window when Lecter asks him, “Are you at your leisure tomorrow?”

“Hmmmm?” Will asks. “Why?”

Lecter inclines his head slightly, a gesture at once apologetic and self-deprecating. “I have officially been assigned to assist you. After what has happened, Jack has deemed it necessary that you be put under temporary surveillance. For your own safety, as well as the city’s. I will endeavor to inconvenience you as little as possible, but as I am sure you will have plenty of questions, this seems as good an opportunity as any to furnish you with answers.”

“Huh,” says Will. Questions? He’ll probably have them tomorrow, he imagines. Right now he can’t process anything. His brain is fogged, thick and stupid.

“I should be in a good position to provide you access to any information that you may desire,” Hannibal continues. “If you are feeling up for it, perhaps even a trip in to the headquarters might be arranged. Tomorrow, then?”

“Tomorrow?” asks Will, feeling like he’s fallen behind, even in so simple a conversation. He makes an effort to sit up, to force his sluggish brain into activity. “Yes. Um... yes. Tomorrow I should be free.” By the grace of God he doesn’t have a performance scheduled. “I’ll probably sleep in though.”

“That is to be expected,” Lecter agrees. “I shall come to collect you for an early lunch, then, if you are amenable?”

Will nods, then keeps nodding, then jolts awake suddenly as coach comes to a halt. He struggles to his feet and towards the door as the coachman comes around to open it for him.

Before the door can open, Will feels Lecter’s hand warm and steady on his shoulder. He half-turns, glimpsing the side of the serene face. 

“Do not fear, Will,” says Lecter quietly. “No harm will come to you. You have me to fight by your side.”

 

Despite his exhaustion, sleep is not a friend to Will. He is chased fitfully through slumber by nightmares -- the pale, dead face of the man he killed, Hobbs, looming at every turn. Will huddles frightened in the dark corners of his own mind as the shambling corpse approaches him, muttering ‘Die, die,’ over and over and over. The words are as inescapable as the man, solid and stone like walls caging him in.

Will wakes drenched in sweat, feeling like he’s sleeping in a swamp.

After fetching towels to lie on top of and absorb the worst of his sweating, Will spends a long time staring silently up at the dark ceiling. The word ‘monster’ echoes in his head almost as loudly as ‘die’ had in his dreams. He has a momentary panicked thought - what if he can do that to someone in his dreams? What if he dreams the word so loud that he does it again, that he kills someone nearby without even knowing they’re there? The idea makes him nauseous. He’ll have to sleep as little as possible until... until when? How long will he have to deal with this?

Will swallows painfully, realizing he’s been thinking of this as an illness, some kind of fever that has come over him and will go away with enough rest and warm broth. But it’s no illness - this is who he _is_. 

A creature. Monster. Freak. Not human.

As frightening as the idea is, it’s also oddly comforting. All his life, Will has been alone. Outcast. In a weird way, it’s nice to finally have a reason. He’d always assumed that everyone felt this way all the time, that everyone experienced emotions as strongly as he did, and were just better at dealing with it than himself. Now that he knows that’s not true, it’s like a burden has been lifted. He’s not weak, he’s just... different.

Will shifts, turning to his other side, trying to find a small piece of towel he hasn’t yet soaked through. But _how_ is he not human? Was his father like this too? His mother? Maybe his mother was, and his father never knew? He was always so reluctant to talk about her. Maybe she was a monster, like him, and had been hunted down for it?

Will shakes his head, banishing the dark thoughts. Lecter had said that he could ask all his questions tomorrow. He’ll have a ton of them by morning.

Lecter himself is another unknown. Will doesn’t know what to make of him. He’s not used to anyone being so suddenly and completely invested in him, and he finds it suspect. Such sudden loyalty seems too good to be true, and Will knows better than to take it at face value.

Then again, Lecter’s presence is like no one Will has ever felt before. He’s calm in a way that seems almost supernatural, like a placid lake with no ripples. Just being around him is blessedly quiet, and still. It’s easier to be in his presence than anyone Will has ever met, including his own family. Being alone with Lecter is like stepping out of a crowded street into a silent church. Much as Will doesn’t want to trust him, it’s difficult to pass up the prospect of such easy company. 

Will’s gotten so used to his own loneliness that he barely feels it anymore. But the new and sudden prospect of that loneliness being assuaged brings it into stark relief. He pulls another towel over himself like a blanket and tries to get back to sleep.

 

Will only manages to drift into something approaching comfortable rest fairly late in the morning, and so he’s still asleep when the knock comes on his door. The world is a blur when he wakes, and he peers muzzily at the carved wooden clock on his bedside table. It’s already 11 in the morning. Shit.

Will stumbles to the door of his room and opens it, startled to find Lecter standing there already, looking alert and pristine, as usual. Even with blood on his hands the previous night, Lecter had looked completely put-together and in control. Will wonders if he’s even capable of dishevelment.

Lecter is carrying a large wicker basket with covered ceramic dishes inside, a cloth laid around and over the vessels to keep them safe and warm. A delicious aroma wafts up from the containers, making Will’s stomach growl.

Lecter smiles - if it can be called that. His smiles are so minimal, so small and self-satisfied, as though the universe is arranging itself for Lecter in just the way he thought it would. Will wonders if Lecter would describe himself as a man who smiles often. He probably would. Will is fairly certain that no one else who knows the man would say the same.

“The owner let me in,” Lecter says, explaining his presence. “I come bearing breakfast. May I come in?”

Will is still only in his sleeping clothes - an old and worn shirt and pair of underwear, stained and discolored by his habit of sweating through them. He tries not to feel too self-conscious next to the perpetually well-arranged Lecter. He steps aside wordlessly to let the other man into the room.

Will’s apartment at the theater is small. It consists of a bed in the corner, a bedside table beneath a single window looking down onto the street from the second story, and then on the opposite wall a table with two chairs. There is also a larger, upholstered chair in the corner by the door, but it is old and threadbare and not particularly comfortable and Will rarely uses it. 

The table is covered with scripts and bills and a hundred other minor daily assortments, and Will hurries to clear it off to make room for Lecter’s basket. The aroma of the food intensifies as Hannibal begins to unpack it; it smells divine.

Lecter sets a small dish in front of Will and places a larger, enclosed tureen on the table between them. He lifts the lid and steam curls into the air, releasing at last the full and heady smell of eggs and sausage, thick with herbs and subtle spice. Lecter retrieves cutlery and a serving spoon from his wicker basket and serves Will a generous portion. Will remembers enough of his rusty, disused manners to wait until Lecter has finished serving himself before he begins eating.

“This is amazing,” Will murmurs after the first mouthful, because it’s true. For the second day in a row he’s treated to the pleasure of unexpectedly vivid flavors blooming across his tongue, sparking his senses and filling a craving he hadn’t felt inside him until the first mouthful. He revels in the taste. “Where did you get it?” As much as he doesn’t like being indebted to Lecter for such expensive food, the pleasure of eating it makes it difficult to maintain the guilt of such scruples.

But to his surprise, Lecter says instead, “I made it myself. As I believe I mentioned last night, cooking is something of a hobby of mine.”

Will stares at him. Despite this being his second time admitting it, Will has a difficult time imagining someone of as high wealth and station as Lecter clearly is doing something so mundane as cooking for himself. Surely he has staff for that? Even the theater has a small kitchen and regular cook who comes in to make meals for the boarders.

Lecter looks politely back at him, that faint not-smile hovering around the edges of his expression, saying nothing more. It’s so difficult to get a read on this man. Will has never before experienced the frustration of being so unaware of what someone around him is thinking and feeling. It’s strange. 

“Well... thank you,” Will says finally. At least that means it was less expensive. He eats all the more cheerfully for the thought of it. As he savors the complex mix of flavors, he sees Lecter’s eyes drift partially closed. That’s one thing he _can_ feel from the man - satisfaction and pleasure at seeing his companion so enjoying the food. It was something he’d felt last night, too, but it is all the stronger now. Probably because it’s Lecter’s own cooking.

When they are well enough into the meal that initial hungers have been satisfied and they both slow in their consumption, Lecter asks delicately, “I sense you have questions?”

It takes Will a moment to realize that he doesn’t mean that he is interpreting that from Will’s behavior - he can _literally_ sense it, because Will himself is projecting. The revelation that all of Will’s inner thoughts and emotions have been on display to those around him his whole life is mortifying, and doesn’t bear dwelling on. Will can feel a slight flush of discomfort heating his face, and knows that Lecter can feel that as well; a never-ending cycle of embarrassment.

Will chases these thoughts away and clears his head, trying to focus on his questions, trying to decide what he wants to ask first.

“If I’m not... human,” he starts, “then where do I come from? How did I get here? I had a mother and a father, or at least, I thought so. Were they also...?”

Lecter slowly finishes the bite he was chewing, swallowing with dignity and precision before responding. “Many creatures, especially in the shtag class, are fae in origin. Those that appear most human are usually what the English call changelings. Fae children switched at birth with a human child. Occasionally there are offspring of fae and humans as well, half-fae children, but they rarely survive to adulthood, and when they do their powers are not as great as those of the fae parent. You are much more likely a changeling than a hybrid.”

Will swallows, and nods. It’s a ludicrous explanation, but one that seems just as plausible as any other, at this point. “So there are... others, like me?”

To his surprise, Doctor Lecter shakes his head. “You are unique, in my experience. Not just the breadth of your power, but the very nature of it. While you come from a group that we recognize, your species has not been seen before. A new species sighting is a very rare event; you are a creature of some distinction.”

“A freak among freaks,” Will mutters. “Great.”

“A gem among stones,” Lecter corrects. “There are many similar to you, but you yourself are irreplaceable. Unique and rare.”

Will doesn’t want to hear that. Doesn’t want to think about it. He’s never wanted to be special, and he doesn’t want it now. It’s not that he needs to be like everyone else, it’s just... it would be nice to _belong_ , for once. Even a little.

“You said I was part of a... a group,” Will says finally, grasping. “So there are others that are similar to me, then, at least?”

“Of a sort,” says Lecter in a cautious tone of voice that tells Will not to get his hopes up. “You are part of a group in the same way that a starling is a passerine bird. We classify creatures like you according to your abilities. You are similar in nature to other shtag, what one might call the soul class. You share certain traits with empaths and clairvoeur, various creatures of time and emotion and fate. But there is no... shall we say... organization of shtag. No social enclave that I am aware of. They are a group by nature, rather than by physical proximity or personal ties.”

Will tries to bite back his disappointment, realizing that Lecter will feel it radiating off him. He toys with his fork, pushing a bit of egg around his plate. As usual he feels nothing from the man - only serene calm. It’s a relief; the last thing he wants right now is to choke on someone else’s pity for him.

“If you are curious to learn more,” Lecter begins, and Will’s head snaps up. The doctor doesn’t look pitying at all - instead he merely seems mildly intrigued, quietly earnest. “I have received permission to bring you to our headquarters, as I believe I mentioned last night. I have acquired a fair number of texts on the subject of the shtag, and you are welcome to borrow a few if it would help to ease your uncertainty.”

Will leans back in his chair, trying to evaluate the man in front of him. He doesn’t know what to think of Doctor Lecter. He seems suspiciously kind, and unnaturally calm. It’s the sort of thing Will doesn’t trust, despite the fact that this man seems his one lifeline to any kind of explanation or understanding of himself. He desperately wants to cling to that assurance - that Will himself is understandable, knowable, more than just some asocial freak - but he’s too wary to commit to anything as serious as trust.

“This organization that you say you work for,” Will asks finally. “That categorizes and studies us. Whatever it is you do. Who are you? What are you called?”

“Our organization has no official name,” says Lecter. “Some call us Seekers, or Watchers. We have been called Librarians, or Hidden Police, or Men of Letters. We have signs to know each other, when necessary. Mostly we exist as curators of information. A classification catalogue, like the Latin nomenclature used among scientists. When necessary, we also consider it our duty to... nullify threats.”

“Ah,” says Will, voice layered with understanding and irony. Of course. Because if it was different, it was dangerous. He is dangerous. He can’t even deny it, can he? He’d killed someone last night. If they called him a monster, there wouldn’t be much protest he could make, would there?

Will finishes his food in silence. He’s sure there’s a lot more he wants to ask, but right now he’s too busy processing what he’s already learned to think of anything else. Deep in thought and glaring at the table, he hardly notices when Doctor Lecter clears the plates in front of them, quietly re-packing his dishes into the little wicker basket.

Will only startles out of his reverie when Lecter touches him lightly on the shoulder. “Shall we?” the doctor murmurs.

“Sorry,” says Will, confused, “shall we what?”

“I thought you might wish to accompany me to the headquarters,” Doctor Lecter reminds him. “It should be educational for you, at the very least. I can pass on the books I mentioned to you. Additionally, I require some paperwork that I must retrieve from the central office, and as I am tasked with keeping an eye on you...”

It sounds polite, but in a cold sort of way that makes Will think he doesn’t have much leeway to protest. Will is reminded once again that the doctor is more guard than friend. No matter how much information or comfort the man might offer, he is not to be trusted. Nevertheless, Will nods. He doesn’t seem to have much choice but to go with the man, and anyway Doctor Lecter is right in that Will really would appreciate more information.

Will stands. “I need to change,” he mentions, gesturing to his bedclothes. 

Lecter inclines his head politely. “I shall wait for you outside.”

Will quickly dresses himself in a simple shirt and slacks -- modest but presentable -- and makes for the door. When he opens it, Lecter gestures for Will to precede him with all the politeness of a butler. Will hurries ahead, trying not to feel like a criminal accompanied by his jailer. When they reach the street, Hannibal signals for his carriage, and Will frowns. 

“That wasn’t the driver you had yesterday.”

The coach pulls up and Doctor Lecter helps Will inside. “No,” he says. “I find it troublesome to keep servants, so I call out for a carriage or other services as I need them. I had a telephone wired up in my house for that purpose.”

Will raises his eyebrows, impressed. The theater doesn’t have a telephone yet, although the manager keeps talking about getting one. His thoughts drift to the doctor, and what his life must be like. What sort of strange man catalogues monsters, hires carriages at a whim, and treats starving actors to expensive meals? Surely whatever organization he works for can’t pay that handsomely?

He files this mystery away for another day. For now he can’t help the feeling of entrapment as he enters the carriage. Lecter could take him anywhere, and there’s not much Will could do to stop him.

‘Except kill him,’ he reminds himself, but this thought brings little comfort. Perhaps he does need a jailer after all. Will is quietly morose for the duration of the ride.

The carriage takes them to the outskirts of Baltimore, to a large, heavy-looking building in the countryside. It is made of dark, forbidding stone, looking more like a fortification than any kind of dwelling. There is an air of gloom about it that makes Will uneasy. Or maybe that’s just his imagination.

Doctor Lecter offers a hand to help him down from the carriage, but Will ignores it. His gaze remains focused on the high, ominous walls. Trying to keep their secrets in? Or their enemies out? What sort of concerns plague an organization dedicated to researching monsters? Will can only begin to guess.

“Unwelcoming, I know,” says Lecter, voicing Will’s thoughts. “It has been modified from an old frontier fort from the early days of the country’s founding. I assure you, the interior is much less dour. This is only the main building, of course. There are other structures nearby on the campus that are far friendlier. My office being one of them.”

“Why aren’t we going there, then?” asks Will.

“The paperwork I need will be in the central office.” Doctor Lecter starts towards the door. “Come along.”

Will follows behind Lecter, hands in his pockets and head down. The last thing he wants is to be in a crowded space full of people, but at this point the effort of protesting seems like it would be more trouble than just following along. Hopefully this won’t take long.

His downcast eyes mean Will doesn’t take in much of the building’s interior. It seems to have clean, functional wood flooring with the occasional ornate rug. That’s about all he notices. There are people around, but the facility is not swelled with them; just a periodic brush of humanity. Will can sense curiosity from those around him, but all vague and most of it directed largely at Doctor Lecter, anyway. They seem to be more interested in how Will came to share Doctor Lecter’s company than in who he is for himself. Well, so much the better.

Lecter stops and Will, still not giving much attention to his surroundings, nearly runs into him. Will blinks abruptly and raises his gaze to Lecter’s chin. He opens his mouth to ask a question, but Lecter is already explaining.

“Please wait here. I’ll be but a moment getting these forms.”

Will nods, trying to swallow down a feeling of panic. He’s an adult. He can be alone in a strange place - it won’t kill him. Nevermind that he’s surrounded by people dedicated to analyzing and possibly destroying him. Doctor Lecter wouldn’t have brought him here if it wasn’t safe. He’ll be fine, it-

Will’s circling thoughts cease abruptly at a light touch on his shoulder. He looks up into Doctor Lecter’s placid face, not quite meeting his eyes.

“It’s alright,” the doctor assures him in a quiet murmur. “Everything will be fine.”

Will nods and straightens his spine, doing his best to project a sense of calm confidence. He’s not sure whether it works, but Lecter seems satisfied enough and takes his leave with a final pat of Will’s shoulder.

Will does his best to tune out the world. He’s experienced at this - his skill at retreating into himself is the only thing that has allowed him to survive in a world full of inopportune crowds. He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, picturing a calm stream-

“Hey, you’re Will Graham, right?”

-only to be interrupted by a strident, if cheerful voice. Will opens his eyes again to see an attractive asian woman directly in front of him, encroaching on his personal space and peering at him curiously. Will blinks repeatedly, having difficulty emerging so rapidly from his place of calm.

The woman grins at him, clearly noticing how off-balance she’s gotten him, although there’s no malice or cruelty in her expression. He’s surprised she managed to get so close without him noticing her - usually he’s all too aware of the people around him. But this woman seems surprisingly muted - all the more so considering how enthusiastic and outgoing she clearly is.

“You’re the rahbenshtag everyone’s talking about, am I right? The new find. That’s pretty cool. I’ve never seen a new classification before. I’m not sure anyone working here has. Maybe some of the super-old geezers.” The woman chatters away with confidence, scarcely needing a reply from Will. She crosses her arms over her chest and gives him an evaluating look.

“I’m Beverly Katz, by the way. Nice to meet you.”

“Umm,” says Will. 

Beverly flashes another grin, like he just told a hilarious joke. She grabs at the sleeve of his jacket and proceeds to drag him towards a nearby door on the opposite side of the hall. “Come on!” she says. “The other guys will want to meet you to.”

“Uh, I think I’m supposed to be waiting-” Will tries, but he follows her, stumbling, to keep from being toppled over. She’s surprisingly strong for her petite stature. Will wonders what kind of a place this organization is - first the towering black man he saw yesterday, and now this small woman among their ranks? He can think of a few relatives and acquaintances from back down South that would have some choice words to say about that. Will himself finds it oddly refreshing. These people are clearly a bit odd, a bit perpendicular to the mainstream ideology. Given a choice, Will prefers such company. It makes him feel less out of place.

Completely ignoring his protests, Beverly draws him into what looks like a hospital sickroom. No -- it looks like an old jail converted into a hospital sickroom. The walls are dark, heavy stone, simple and imposing with high, narrow windows, separated into recessed niches. Within these niches are a series of cheap cot beds, two or three to a segment, some of which have occupants. Judging by the cloths covering their bodies and faces, none of the occupants are currently living.

In the center of the room -- wide, open, probably the former location of the supervising jailer -- is a thin metal operating table, also cloth-covered. There is another shrouded figure lying stiff and still on its surface.

Will immediately recoils at the presence of so much death, his breathing rapidly increasing. He stares down at the floor, trying to contain himself. Images flood his mind of the covered bodies rising, their shrouds falling from pale and grim faces as they stand and begin to shuffle towards him, beseeching.

So focused is Will on containing his fear of the dead that he fails to notice the living -- two men have approached since their sudden entrance, and stand beside him now. Will only sees them as their smart black shoes come into his field of vision, forcing him to look up. Like Beverly, their emotions seem strangely muffled, as though Will’s head was surrounded by cotton-wool. It’s not like Lecter’s smoothness - with Lecter, it’s barely possible to tell he even has emotions at all. With these three Will can clearly tell what they’re feeling, but the emotions don’t assault him like a typical encounter. It’s as though everyone Will’s met up until this point has grabbed him and shaken him by the shoulders, and for once someone is finally keeping their hands to themselves. It’s startling, but refreshing.

“Well, look what the Katz dragged in,” says one of the men cheerfully. He looks to be the older of the two -- a bit gray in the receding hair -- with lines of cynical self-deprecation etched around his smile from long habit.

“What have we here?” asks the other man. He looks younger, still not having completely outgrown the cocksure attitude of boyhood, with dark and curling hair accompanying a messy, half-kempt beard. He raises an eyebrow.

Beverly slaps Will on the back companionably. It’s a remarkably personal gesture for someone he’s only just met. “Take a look! It’s our new rahbenshtag! In the flesh!”

“Ah,” says the older one, looking suddenly intrigued. “The famous Will Graham, huh? Word about you spreads pretty damn quick. Don’t let Beverly put you off. The woman has no manners. My name’s Jimmy Price.” He gestures to the other man. “This is Brian Zeller. The three of us handle post-mortem and crime scene investigations here. Comparing known trademarks of various species to the archives, that kind of thing. Glorified librarians, really, the lot of us.”

“Speak for yourself,” mutters Zeller, and starts to reach out to shake Will’s hand before apparently thinking better of it and lowering the extended limb, sticking his hand in the pocket of his white coat.

“Uh, nice to meet you,” Will says at last, since they all seem to be looking expectantly at him.

“So, what brings you to the morgue?” asks Price. “Here for some tests?”

Will jumps at the mention of tests. He knows he’s radiating fear, but he can’t seem to help it. He shakes his head vigorously. “I’m just here with Doctor Lecter. He needed to go get something. I’m- I’m waiting.”

“Oh, you’re still under evaluation!” says Beverly. “That makes sense, I guess.”

“Of course he’s still under evaluation,” Zeller turns to her with exasperated eyebrows. “He was just classified yesterday!”

Beverly rolls her eyes. “Officially, sure. But it’s not like we haven’t been studying him for weeks at this poi-” she trails off at Will’s sudden and obvious stiffening. 

“Oh. Shit. Sorry.” Will’s never heard a woman swear like that, so off-handedly. “I guess you wouldn’t have known. Uh, yeah... surprise?”

The two men send long-suffering looks heavenward. Zeller gives Will a brief, comforting pat on the shoulder that does absolutely nothing to settle Will’s unease. “Sorry to have to tell you like this. But yeah, the organization’s been watching you for a while now. Had to find out if you were dangerous, you know?”

Will takes deep, steadying breaths. “Who?”

Zeller frowns at Price and Beverly as he tries to recall. “Who was his original monitor, before Lecter got put on the case. Do you remember?”

“Bloom, I think?” ventures Beverly.

“Alana?” Will’s eyebrows rise, but after a moment of surprise the information immediately snaps into place. Of course it was Alana. She had introduced him to Hannibal in the first place. She’d come to nearly every performance of his for two weeks running. He’d thought she was just another infatuated fan, or maybe an affiliate from a larger theater, looking to poach talent. She wouldn’t have been the first.

“Yeah, that sounds right,” Price confirms. “She would have brought in Lecter. They know each other from way back. Trained together, I think. He would have been her go-to for a shtag specialist.”

Beverly nods. She glances up at Will from under sheepish lashes. “Don’t be mad at her. She was just doing her job.”

“I’m not mad.” And it was true. Will had felt awkward around Alana, pressured by her attention. The knowledge that it was merely professional was something of a relief, if also perhaps a bit... disappointing.

“Ah, there you are.” The rich, familiar accent makes Will turn. Lecter stands in the doorway, surveying the scene with his usual mild manner. “I apologize. It seems my absence has allowed you to be waylaid by brigands.”

Beverly sticks her tongue out at Lecter, and Will once again marvels at her. He’s never met a woman with quite her audacity. 

“We were just introducing ourselves,” says Price, taking the teasing good-naturedly. “Your fault for leaving him alone.”

Lecter inclines his head in acknowledgement, and peers around the room. “What are you all working on today?”

“Feeling morbid, are we?” says Beverly with suggestively waggling eyebrows. She walks over to the center of the room, to the metal operating table, and pulls back the shroud just enough to reveal a young woman’s face. Or at least, most of it. Will turns his own face away, fighting nausea.

The woman’s face looks like it’s been ripped open. Large chunks of flesh are missing from her cheeks and chin, leaving stark, grinning bone beneath. A huge chunk of scalp is gone, all the way down to the skull, which is partly caved in. Will doesn’t know if you can see brain through it. He didn’t look closely enough, and he doesn’t want to. An image flashes into his mind of the girl he rescued the previous night. Her eyes, her hair, overlay the body on the slab for a moment. She looks so much alike. For a moment Will feels guilty, as though he’d chosen between that girl’s life and this one’s. As though this girl’s death is somehow his fault.

“Found her early this morning, still warm,” says Beverly. “Another Hound kill. Jack said there was going to be another one, and here it is.”

“I’m usually right about these things.”

They all turn to see Jack, the large black man from the previous evening, stride into the room. He is unsmiling, his gaze fixed on the girl on the slab. “Report,” he says briskly.

Beverly shrugs. “Textbook Hound. Body mangled, huge chunks of the insides torn out and left around the scene or missing altogether. Bites suggest werewolf. It’s just chaos and carnage. Whatever got at this girl was full of blind rage, desperate to destroy. Nothing more.”

“No,” says Will.

They all turn to look at him. He can’t see it - he has his eyes closed - but he can feel them, peripherally. They’re not the focus of his attention. His focus is the body on the slab. With his eyes closed, he can feel her death more clearly. It shivers into him, the girl’s eyes open and staring at him, begging him for something. Desperate.

“What do you mean, no?” Jack’s voice is cautious - curious.

“It’s not rage,” Will mutters. The girl stares at him in his mind. The hideous open wound on her face reveals her teeth. They’re pointed, like fangs. “Can’t you feel it?” he asks of no one.

“What do you feel, Will?” Doctor Lecter’s voice, too, is soft.

“Hunger. So hungry.”

Will feels a stunned surprise ripple through the room. 

“Culinwa?” Zeller asks.

Price’s response is immediate. “Can’t be. No culinwa would be this messy. And anyway, any culinwa species would need to feed way more often. No, it’s textbook tranfue. Has to be. It’s too violent.”

Will shakes his head. His eyes are still closed. “It’s not violent. It’s made to look violent. It’s... deliberate. And SO hungry.”

“What else?” Now Jack’s voice is rapt. Commanding. It breaks Will’s concentration. He opens his eyes abruptly to find the girl still on the slab, still staring at the ceiling. Not, as he had thought, coming towards him with mouth open, about to rip out his throat.

Will shakes his head. “I- I don’t know. She’s dead. It’s not- not clear. I wasn’t there when she died, so it’s just- it’s... echoes. I don’t know. Maybe if I saw where she died...”

Jack looks at Lecter. “I want you to take him to the crime scene.”

The room erupts into shouts of disbelief. Everyone seems taken aback by the suggestion. “You can’t!” says Price, at the same time as Zeller utters, “Him? Are you crazy? That’s so against protocol!”

Lecter shakes his head while the rest of the mutters die down before saying, “Jack, I can’t take an untrained, unknown shtag to a crime scene. Even if I were allowed to take a supernatural with me on official business, he can’t even shield for god’s sake. He has no concept of how to protect himself, let alone anyone else.”

“Which is why he’s going with you,” Jack insists. “The longer we wait, the colder the crime scene gets. He’ll have time to learn shielding later. And if anyone asks why he’s with you at the scene, well... you’re just taking him out around the town. Just observing him. You happened to walk down that street by the docks. Coincidence. You’re not even supposed to go to crime scenes, under normal circumstances. It’s not your jurisdiction. Why would your visit there be official?”

Doctor Lecter is clearly unhappy with this concept. He frowns, silent for a few moments. Finally, he turns to face Will, his expression serious. “Will, what is your preference?”

“I-” Will glances around the room at the various expressions, not meeting their eyes but taking a quick temperature survey of the emotions in the room. “I’m not sure I understand exactly what’s being asked of me.”

“Jack wants you to go to the crime scene where this body was found. To determine if you can sense anything more about the creature that killed her.”

“Creature?” Will feels out of his depth, like everyone else in the room knows about a hundred times more about the situation than he does. He’s like a child among adults; it’s not that they’re intentionally hiding anything from him, merely that it hasn’t occurred to them that he doesn’t understand.

“They call it the Hound of the Chesapeake,” says Jack. “It’s been killing in and around Baltimore for some time now. The police think it’s an animal. We don’t. I would very much like to catch it.”

In the corner of his vision, Will sees Beverly roll her eyes and hears her mutter under her breath, “THAT’S an understatement.”

Will’s glance flickers between Jack and Hannibal. “If I can... I’d like to be useful. If it’s possible. But I don’t even... I mean, I don’t know if I’ll be able to tell anything more by being there...”

Jack shrugs. “Good enough for me. Any straw to grasp at at this point. The idea that we might have mis-classified the creature is the best lead we’ve had in months.” He meets Lecter’s eyes meaningfully. “If he’s useful out there, maybe he can wander by the next crime scene as well. There’s going to be one.”

Lecter’s expression is tight-lipped, but he gestures with his head for Will to accompany him out into the hall. Will nods perfunctorily at his new acquaintances, and squeezes past Jack to get back outside. As he does he feels the man’s eyes on him, evaluating. He doesn’t meet them.

Lecter remains quiet as they walk down the hall, until finally Will’s curiosity gets the better of him. “What’s wrong? Why was everyone so upset?”

Lecter shakes his head. “Supernaturals - creatures like yourself - are not allowed to assist in our business. It’s not a rule that is always strictly followed - seers and empaths and other shtag particularly are often too valuable to overlook as consultants in certain matters. But Jack is pushing his luck by allowing you at a crime scene. He could get in a significant amount of trouble.”

“Oh.” This context reshapes his memory of the scene, brings in new understanding to certain angles. Will ponders this for a moment. They continue down the hall in silence, almost to the exit when Will asks, “What’s a ravenstag?”

“Hm?” Lecter looks curiously at him as he holds the door open for Will to precede him out of the building. “A what?”

“A ravenstag,” Will repeats. “Beverly and everyone else kept calling me that. What does it mean?”

“Ah, rahbenshtag, yes. Your new classification.”

“Sounds German,” says Will.

Lecter smiles minutely, that strange minimal expression of his. “We use the magical language of the fae for our classification protocols. Many believe it is the common root of all modern language, and it often rings eerily similar to a wide variety of human speech.”

“So what’s mine mean, then?”

Lecter takes a deep breath and lets it out thoughtfully, clearly choosing his words carefully before he speaks. “The most common translation for ‘rahbenshtag’ would be ‘soul mirror.’ ‘Shtag,’ as I believe I’ve mentioned, is the vital energy of the world. It is often translated as spirit or soul, but it can also refer to emotion, life energy, or even time. ‘Rahben,’ on the other hand, while generally translated as ‘mirror,’ is more complex. In the fae language, ‘rahben’ refers to an object that takes an image of a thing and reflects back the truest nature of that thing. Often it reveals secrets that might have been unknown even to he who wears the original image. So perhaps a more accurate translation of the full term would be ‘soul revealer’ or ‘soul truth.’”

A suspicion nags at Will’s mind. “Did you choose the name for me?” he asks.

“Yes,” says Lecter. “Do you like it?”

Will bites his lip. The late fall air is crisp and nips at the tip of his nose, bites cold and sharp into his lungs. “I haven’t decided yet. I’ll think about it.”


	3. Investigation

The crime scene is near the edge of the bay, and the putrid, salty smell of the unclean water -- like fetid seaweed -- causes Hannibal to wrinkle his nose. He does his best to ignore it, focusing instead on his feelings of satisfaction. It’s always pleasant when a scenario unfolds exactly as he had envisioned. Beverly made her expected introduction, dragging Will into the presence of the Hound’s latest victim. Jack made the expected overture to ask for assistance -- always desperate for the smallest hint that might help him catch his prize.

And Will -- Will had exceeded his wildest expectations. Hannibal had been prepared to weave a complex tapestry of conversation and subtle hinting to provoke Jack into asking for Will’s help. But Will had been entirely useful all on his own. Had, in fact, revealed more about the nature of the kill than Hannibal had bargained for. Still, it remains well within Hannibal’s control. A stunning display.

All in all, Hannibal is most pleased.

The day is briskly cold but wonderfully clear and bright, wind whipping through them with a chill foreboding winter. Will projects trepidation as they approach the original location of the corpse. Occasionally it can be difficult for the organization to commandeer a body that they suspect as a victim of supernatural attack. Particularly if the death looks human-caused. But it’s never an issue with Hound corpses. The organization has long established themselves as belonging to a medical facility that researches animal attacks, tracking hydrophobic animals and testing bodies to see if a vicious animal might have some dangerous infection. The police want to believe that the Hound doesn’t exist. Barring their ability to do so, they at least want to believe that it’s someone else’s problem.

They stop at the mouth of an alley, cobbles still a burnt red with spattered blood. It faces out onto the bay, onto a rarely-used street. A perfect unseen location for a murder. For a moment they stand and take it in, the cold, bright water of the bay at their backs, staring into the darkened alley.

Will takes a deep, shuddering breath as he stares at the blood. “What am I meant to do?” he asks eventually.

Hannibal finds it a bit odd that Will should be the one asking him, but he projects confidence. “Whatever you did at the morgue should be a good place to start. Close your eyes. Concentrate on her death.”

At the morgue, Hannibal had felt Will projecting the young woman’s death. It had slid through the room like a ghost, obvious to them all, the phantom of it pacing the room like a fiend. There had been an agonizing calm to it, nothing like a woman ripped apart in a violent frenzy. If any of them had doubted Will’s abilities before, the depth of emotion that he could pull from a corpse and project into the room was an excellent advertisement of his skills.

Will takes a deep breath and does as he’s told, closing his eyes. Hannibal feels little from him, and then-

_Cold. Obedience. Fear, and then no fear, and then -- at the last moment -- fear again. Blood draining slowly, life even more so. Choking on blood, cracking bone-_

Hannibal opens his eyes -- he doesn’t remember closing them -- to find Will shaking, kneeling on the cobbles with his hand pressed to the bloodstain. He looks as though he’s about to have a seizure. Hannibal kneels beside him and puts a hand on each of Will’s upper arms. He bodily drags away the hand from contact with the blood. Will gasps and whimpers, and doesn’t open his eyes.

Hannibal frowns, concerned. He shakes Will slightly, calling out his name. Will does not respond. He is lost in the reconstruction of events. Hannibal wonders if he might have underestimated the breadth of Will’s power -- he had assumed the rahbenshtag dealt only with emotion. But what if he is some kind of clairvoeur, able to physically see what had happened that night, just through contact with the blood? Hannibal doesn’t want to have to kill this miraculous boy just yet. It would be such a waste.

“Will.” Hannibal says loudly and calmly. He tries to project stability. “Will, look at me. I am here.”

If he can just get Will to open his eyes... but they remain firmly shut. Will continues shaking, becoming more violent with the motions, thrashing. “Stop,” he murmurs under his breath. “Don’t.”

Hannibal embraces him, not affectionate but pinning his arms, keeping Will from moving carelessly and hurting himself. “Will!” he repeats into Will’s ear. “Come back to the world of the living, Will. You are not a part of this death.”

Will’s eyes open. He is not seeing the world around him, that much is clear. But it’s enough. Hannibal holds him at arms length, enough to make eye contact.

“Will.” He pushes power into the words, forcing obedience. “Will, come back. Don’t retreat from the real world, Will. Come back to us.”

It works, but it doesn’t. Hannibal doesn’t feel the command catch the way it usually does. He doesn’t feel the trance-like folding of his subject down into compliance that he’s used to when he exercises his power. But somehow, the attempt is enough to shock Will back into reality. He blinks rapidly, panting, heaving with panicked breath. Hannibal holds him steadily at arm’s length.

Will collapses slowly forward, breathing slower but still achingly deep, like he’s trying to fill lungs that are no longer within his body. The sound is eerily familiar to Hannibal, an echo of the previous night. Will’s topple forward continues until the top of his head is pressed lightly against Hannibal’s chest, his own hands rigidly grasping Hannibal’s forearms for something concrete to hold on to.

“Are you back with us, Will?” Hannibal asks, although he can already feel the truth.

“Yes,” Will gasps, breathless. “Yes. I’m here. I don’t... I can’t do that again. Not right away. Let me just... I don’t feel... I don’t know what’s me, and what’s...”

Hannibal lets go of one of Will’s forearms to stroke his hair reassuringly. Physical contact is always a tough call with shtag. Some are immensely comforted by it, while others are instantly repulsed. Hannibal dares take the risk with Will, having seen it work on him before, and it does seem to relax him. Though whether this is related to his powers or just due to a general lack of human contact in Will’s life remains unclear.

“I need to see her.” Will’s voice is muffled in part by the downward tilt of his head and in part because it still muttered past wheezing breaths.

“The dead girl?” Hannibal asks, curiously. It seems odd that Will would want to turn around and return to the office they just left, but perhaps he saw something in the crime scene that he needs to verify.

But Will shakes his head. “The live one. The one we saved last night. I need to see if she’s okay. I need her to be okay.”

Hannibal hesitates, calculating. “Saving the life of another person brings with it a feeling of emotional obligation, to say nothing of the nature of her father’s death. You must be cautious that your natural empathy does not overwhelm your judgement.”

“You were there too,” Will mumbles. “You saved her life more than I did. Do you feel obligated?”

“I feel a staggering amount of obligation,” says Hannibal, to see how Will will respond.

Will’s head snaps up sharply. The fear radiating from him has become confused, circuitous; he seeks something to anchor him. Perhaps this girl will do that for him. His eyes earnestly search Hannibal’s, judging his sincerity. Hannibal is impassive, as usual.

“Please,” Will mumbles, looking down again.

Hannibal nods. “If you feel it would help you, we can go visit the Hobbs girl. I admit to some concern myself as to her condition.”

Will nods again, his body still trembling with the aftershocks of his empathy. “Thank you.” He remains where he is for another few moments, putting himself back together. Hannibal glances around to check for observation, but this area of the docks is mostly deserted. Those that do pass are far too intent on their own business to bother scrutinizing a pair of men crouched in an alley.

“What happened?” Hannibal asks finally, when Will seems to be regaining a bit of calm.

Will shakes his head. “I got swept up in her death. This is where she felt it - the fear, dying. It was stronger than I expected, and I got trapped in it.”

“You were supposed to be attempting to empathize with her killer, not her,” Hannibal reminds him.

Will shakes his head. “He’s not here. Or, he is here, but only a... a flavor. A sort of faint scent hanging in the air. He’s too calm. The only lingering piece of him that even resembles an emotion is the Hunger. Even she could feel it from him.”

“That in itself is a clue,” Hannibal informs him. “Up until now, the Hound was always suspected to be of the tranfue genus. The species of that class are given to wild and uncontrollable bursts of rage, or despair, or simple animal violence. Werewolves, and the like. But what you describe -- the Hunger -- fits more closely with culinwa, the man-eaters. Those that must feed on humans in order to survive.”

He’s not sure if Will is listening or not, but the man seems to have calmed enough finally that he is ready to move on. Hannibal stands, bringing Will up with him. As usual, Will avoids eye contact. The emotions Hannibal feels from him include a faint sheen of embarrassment. He does not enjoy being caught so out of control.

“Culinwa,” Will mutters, trying out the word. So he had been listening. “That’s what Jack said back at the headquarters, right? That’s what he thought?”

“Based on what you told him, yes.”

Will nods, but whatever suppositions are percolating within his skull, he keeps them to himself. No matter; Will will discuss it when he’s ready.

"Would you like to try again?" Hannibal asks, looking back down at the blood stain.

Will glances at it out of the corner of his eye, like he doesn't wish to make eye contact with the girl's death. "No," he says firmly. "There's nothing else here for me to find. I want to go see the girl in the hospital."

Hannibal leads the way back to his coach, parked at a distance, closer to the main road. He gives the driver instructions to take them to the hospital and helps Will into the carriage. Will follows, quiet. He stares out the window, as he did during the previous day’s ride.

The cobbles clatter under the horse’s hooves and the swiftly-spinning wheels. “What was it like?” Hannibal asks softly. “Her death.”

A full-body shudder wrings Will from head to toe, like a convulsion. “She couldn’t breathe,” he mumbles. “He took her lungs first. While she was alive. At first she was calm, unafraid of him for some reason. And then the violence began and she was so afraid, but there was nothing she could do.”

They both fall silent again, and say nothing more until they reach the hospital.

 

The girl, when they arrive, is alive but still unconscious. The nurses, with a little charming from Hannibal, are happy enough to gossip; the police were here all morning. They say her name is Abigail. They say her father was some kind of serial murderer. They say he killed over half a dozen girls who looked just like her. Who knows what kind of sick thinking causes that sort of behavior. Good riddance.

Will doesn’t pay much attention to the gossip, though the girl’s name obviously catches his ear; his whole body straightens when he hears it. Hannibal smiles and thanks the last of the nurses, who dithers and smiles and coos over him before she finally makes her way out of the room, leaving them alone.

Hannibal comes to stand next to Will, who sits in a chair at the girl’s side, staring intently at her sleeping form. “Is this what you required?” Hannibal asks.

Will nods. “They were overlapping, in my mind. This girl and the girl from the alley. Maybe it’s because they look so similar, but... it’s better now. Knowing she’s still alive. I couldn’t bear to think that I just-” he cuts off, apparently having trouble completing the thought.

Hannibal completes it for him: “That you had killed a man to no purpose?”

Will’s jaw tightens, and he nods.

They remain quietly at her side for a while, watching her breathe. The scar on her neck is large and vengeful, a hateful red stripe on her otherwise pale and delicate skin. Hannibal sees nothing particularly special about her: just a girl, fighting to survive with the common desperation of her species. But Will seems captivated by her somehow, and that is enough. Perhaps he became lost in her fear, the way he became lost in the other girl’s death. Perhaps he is still tied to her in this way.

Will sighs. “I just wish she would wake up.” The nurses had not been sure she would.

A thought occurs to Hannibal. He thinks carefully about the best way to obliquely suggest it. Will must think the idea is his own. “Our wishes are like the stars,” he says. “Shining, numerous, and just as far away.” Perhaps too subtle? “We all have things we want. Some of our desires are more powerful than others. But we are all equally helpless in the face of them.”

Will hesitates. Hannibal can practically watch the thoughts slip through his mind; turning, processing. And then, as Hannibal had hoped, “Not me.”

“Pardon?” asks Hannibal, innocent.

“I killed her father with the power of my desires. Maybe I can bring her back as well.”

Hannibal allows a frown to enter his voice. “That is a dangerous risk. We do not yet know the full extent of your powers. You could hurt her, or more likely yourself, without meaning to. Remember what happened at the crime scene.”

Will shakes his head stubbornly. “I want to try. I think I can do it. If I just want it badly enough.”

Hannibal pauses, then moves to the door. Will looks back at him, beseeching, then smiles ruefully when Hannibal checks for nearby observers and then closes the door, giving them privacy. “Be careful,” Hannibal warns. “If you lose yourself, I’m not certain I will be able to pull you out again.”

“Got it.” Will nods, more to himself than to Hannibal, and turns back to the girl. He lays a hand on Abigail’s shoulder and closes his eyes.

Moments pass. There is no great wave of emotion, as there was at the crime scene. Instead the time ticks by in silence. Hannibal feels Will’s desire, his desperation for the girl to wake. But it is only Will’s own emotions, nothing more. Nothing like the crime scene, and nothing like his murder of Garrett Jacob Hobbs.

Finally Will breaks off, nearly panting with exertion. “I don’t know what to do,” he says in a small voice. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to try to do to make it happen.”

“The emotion that killed Hobbs was fear,” Hannibal points out. “It was powerful, overwhelming. But that emotion is destructive, tears one down. You cannot build up a person out of fear. Perhaps you require a positive emotion of equal power to wake her. I am not certain you have such a thing within you at the moment.”

“But I want it so _badly_ ,” Will insists.

Hannibal shrugs. “Apparently desire is not enough. Though you wish she would wake, she is no one important to you. She is not your daughter, despite what you did to her father.”

Will shakes his head angrily, and opens his mouth to respond when suddenly the door to the room swings open without so much as a knock.

A woman stands in the doorway, clearly surprised to see them. She has fiery red hair, cascading in extravagant waves of curls over her neck and shoulders. Her expression is shrewd, calculating, eyes scanning the room with a practiced appraisal as soon as she enters. Hannibal recognizes her immediately.

“Freddie Lounds. What, praytell, has earned us a visit from your ilk?”

Hannibal can tell from Will’s stiffness that he has taken an immediate dislike to her. It shows his good taste, at any rate. Hannibal watches her with contempt. She sneers at both of them.

“Well what have we here?” she asks, her voice pleased and confident as a coiled snake. “This must be the new shtag everyone’s talking about. Intriguing.”

“He is none of your concern,” Hannibal says flatly.

“Oh, I don’t know about that.” Freddie oozes her way into the room. She’s smartly dressed in a slim, pin-striped dress with large lapels on the jacket-like top and an extravagant feathered hat. Fashionable, but still forgiving enough that she can move quickly in it. Hannibal deftly inserts himself between her and Will, blocking her progress. She stops, but peers around the side of him to try and glimpse the hidden shtag.

“I’ve been hearing rumors from the grapevine,” Freddie continues. “Our little shtag was at a crime scene last night. And now here it is, visiting the victim’s daughter. A bit odd, don’t you think? If I was a murderous monster, I know I’d want to cover my tracks. Have to make sure the witnesses won’t speak up, right?”

Hannibal scowls at her. “He’s E rank. Not your concern.”

Freddie smiles, condescending and self-satisfied. “Preliminarily. It was only classified yesterday. It can’t possibly be out of the observation period yet.” She waves at Will over Hannibal’s shoulder, wiggling the tips of her fingers. “I thought it prudent to be nearby, in case the rank is... bumped up.”

“You are not welcome, Miss Lounds,” says Hannibal firmly. “Please leave.”

Freddie rolls her eyes. “I’m here for an interview with the victim, Abigail Hobbs.”

“As you can see,” Hannibal says curtly, “she has not yet woken from her ordeal. Your presence is not required.” 

Freddie cranes around his shoulder again, trying to get a better glimpse of the obscured Will. Will is still and silent behind Hannibal. For once, Hannibal feels very little emotional projection from him.

“What?” says Freddie peevishly, gesturing towards Will. “You won’t even let me meet it?”

“Out,” Hannibal insists. “Now.”

“You think I killed a man with my powers,” Will says quietly. His voice is dangerous, glittering-knife sharp. Hannibal has the impression of the bright eyes of a mongoose as it carefully watches the movements of a snake. Waiting. Evaluating. “And yet, here you are. Brave, maybe. Or something else.”

The threat is clear, but Freddie has never been one to be intimidated, even when she should be. She continues to crane to get a look at him. Hannibal puts a guiding hand on her elbow, trying to physically usher her from the room. She shrugs him off, then blows a kiss in Will’s direction. “Cute. I like ‘em feisty. I’m sure we’ll see each other again soon, shtag. Don’t get too comfortable.”

In the end Hannibal has to bodily march her out the door. He shuts it firmly behind her with a satisfying thump and resists the urge to wipe off his hands where they touched her. A truly vile creature.

“Who was that?” asks Will, distaste clear in his voice. He has turned in his chair, his eyes on the closed door. Despite his stillness, he shows no signs of fear from the encounter. Only caution.

“Freddie Lounds is a bounty hunter,” Hannibal informs him. “Supernaturals of certain rank come with a price on their heads. There are those who make their living hunting them down. Miss Lounds can be... overzealous. She often hunts those whose rank do not strictly require the attention of a hunter.”

Will sounds heavy with exhaustion -- or perhaps frustration -- when he asks, “What are ranks? What does that mean?”

Hannibal draws up a chair next to Will, sitting beside him with their knees almost touching. They both stare down at the unconscious face of Abigail Hobbs.

“Supernatural creatures, in addition to being separated by species, are classified with a dual ranking system -- one letter and one number -- based on how dangerous they are, and how easily discovered,” Hannibal explains. “'D' rank or higher must be constantly monitored. 'A' rank or higher must be killed immediately upon discovery because of the threat they pose to humans.”

Will’s breathing is conspicuously measured, as though he’s trying to remain calm. “I’m E, you said?”

“E-0,” Hannibal confirms. “No more dangerous than a normal human, and unlikely to cause panic upon accidental discovery, since there is no physical evidence of your supernatural nature. That is my preliminary diagnosis. The one I gave Jack.”

Will hesitates. “But I am more dangerous than a normal human. That’s why you lied about my powers to Jack. You didn’t want me to be monitored.” He breathes in deeply. Breathes out. “What would be the rank of someone who can kill a person with their mind?”

Hannibal pauses, but decides on honesty. The truth is generally safest in situations like this, and he wants Will to trust him. “Those whose lack of control over their true nature results in occasional, usually accidental deaths are given a C rank.”

Will’s shoulders slump, apparently relieved. “But not A.”

“No. A is reserved for those of wanton destruction, that leave swaths of dead in their wake. Much like the Hound we are tracking. There are higher ranks as well - double- and triple-A, but they are very rare.”

“Okay.” Will nods, his eyes on Abigail but his focus inward. “Okay,” he repeats.

 

They don’t try again to wake Abigail. Perhaps Will is too shaken from the encounter with Freddie, or perhaps merely demoralized from his earlier attempt. Regardless of the cause, after a few minutes longer of watching Abigail in her indefinite sleep, Will rises. Hannibal can sense his eagerness to depart, and doesn’t argue with him.

When they reach the carriage, Hannibal pauses before instructing the driver. He turns to face Will. “Would you care to join me for dinner tonight?” he offers. “I’d be very pleased to invite you to my home, if you are willing. I enjoy cooking for others far more than cooking for myself alone.”

Will hesitates, torn. Hannibal can clearly sense his indecision. For a moment, he thinks Will will accept his invitation. But then at the last moment he shakes his head. Hannibal’s not sure if Will himself knew what decision he was going to make.

“Thank you, but I think this has all been a bit... much,” says Will. “I need a little time to take it in. I’d like to just go home, please.”

Hannibal nods amiably, and instructs the coachman. When he drops Will off at the theater, the young man hesitates by the carriage window, half-turned back. His mouth opens slightly, but in the end he simply nods and turns back around, disappearing into the building. Hannibal watches him go. For all that Will is remarkably easy to read, he’s equally as difficult to understand.

 

Hannibal decides to return to the organization headquarters before he retires for the night, and is glad he did -- the place is a frenzy of excitement.

Jack waves Hannibal into his office impatiently. “Good, good. You’re here. What did you find at the crime scene?”

Hannibal throws a skeptical look over his shoulder at the buzzing activity in the hall before closing the door to Jack’s office behind him and standing formally across from the man’s desk. “Nothing much of note. Will became momentarily lost in the girl’s death - he said little about the killer. The hunger remained constant in his impression, however. He said anything else from the killer was too subtle to retrieve.”

Jack nods. “Fine. Good. Well, at least that mess has a new lead. So it’s not all bad news today.”

Hannibal raises an eyebrow. “What seems to be the commotion, if I may ask?”

Jack leans back in his chair. He looks tired. Frustrated. He is a man who does a great deal for very little thanks, as Hannibal well knows. Most of the time he handles it well, but it does often make him curt.

“You remember Garrett Jacob Hobbs?” Jack begins. “The man your shtag killed?”

“Of course,” says Hannibal. It would be difficult to forget, even if it hadn’t been only the previous day.

Jack runs a hand over his military-short hair. Jack’s father served in the 54th Massachusetts, and Hannibal suspects that Jack does everything possible to emulate the man, from his hairstyle to his gruff bearing. “New evidence suggests he might have been culinwa.”

Hannibal raises an eyebrow. That explains a lot about why they ran into Freddie Lounds at the hospital. But before he can comment Jack slams an angry fist -- abrupt, startling -- down on the desk. “But of course we can’t get access to the bodies -- his, or any of the girls’ -- because the police still think it's their investigation. If he even left any bodies behind for us to inspect, that is.”

Hannibal is surprised. He’d seen no indication of the man’s true nature the night he’d been killed. But then, culinwa are notoriously good at blending in among the human populace; a necessary adaptation for predators that feed on human flesh.

“You suspect they were completely devoured?” Hannibal guesses.

Jack nods. “The police are being tight-lipped about it, but if he was a vampire or something equally obvious, we’d have heard about it before this. No, if they didn’t flag the investigation as an animal -- or at least as notably strange, then they must not have any victims’ bodies to go on. It’s the only plausible explanation.”

“I appreciate your frustration,” says Hannibal with a nod. “Any trail we might follow will be long cold by the time the police are ready to relinquish the body.”

"And if he's got allies -- God forbid he's a species that pack hunts..." Jack sighs. “It’s not your problem.” He waves a tired hand -- curt in its dismissiveness, but from fatigue rather than rudeness. “You go home and try to enjoy your evening. Thanks for the info from the shtag. He’s progressing well?”

Hannibal nods. “Admirably.”

 

As he rides home, a plan is already forming in Hannibal’s mind. Hannibal’s plans are never single-threaded. There is no complex machine of interlocking parts that must go exactly as expected in order to function. Instead, Hannibal has contingency after overlapping contingency, a rabbit warren of twists and turns and escape routes. He believes in being prepared; all eventualities must be planned for. All possibilities must be exploited.

He dismisses the coach upon reaching his home and heads to the icehouse to retrieve meat for dinner preparations, before stopping himself. Hannibal’s plan coalesces further in his mind, like drops of blood pooling together. No, he should be hungry for this. Will will feel the hunger in him.

Oh, Will. Instead of dinner, Hannibal contents himself sitting in the parlor by the fire until dusk, contemplating Will’s remarkable performance. He should perhaps be nervous that Will has tipped more of Hannibal’s hand than he had anticipated. But he has contingencies prepared; more so if tonight goes as he plans. Instead, Hannibal thrills. His nerves thrum with excitement. Such a strange, beautiful creature, this rahbenshtag. So earnest, desperate, and so powerful. The way he channeled the girl’s death almost brings Hannibal right back to the moment of its culmination. To the excitement and the taste of her blood.

After a few hours of exquisite anticipation, Hannibal dons his long coat and prepares to leave the house once more. He does not call for a carriage this time. Hannibal’s manor home is set on the outskirts of Baltimore, a substantial walk from the city proper. But Hannibal is far faster than people realize.

Nevertheless, it is long dark by the time Hannibal steals into the city, stars twinkling in sympathy with the gas street lamps. Over his arm is the handle of his little wicker basket, full of empty metal jars that clink softly against one another. In his coat pocket is a sharp, reliable knife, patient in its sheath.

He finds his way to Will’s theater just in time -- the performance is moments from letting out. It is not Will’s show tonight, but another that the small playhouse operates on off-nights from their central attraction.

Hannibal makes his way into the lobby, positioning himself to casually monitor the doors as guests exit. He’s not particularly conspicuous; plenty of others wait in the lobby to meet friends, to say nothing of hired coachmen casually leaning on the walls, catching up with one another while they await their charges. Hannibal has left the wicker basket outside, just around the corner of the theater in the mouth of an alley; it’s too easily recognizable to bring with him inside. 

Hannibal waits, patient. Vigilant. He is looking for something very particular. 

When the doors open and the audience begins to meander out, Hannibal is initially disappointed. Well, if not tonight then no matter. He can always return; as long as he does not do so too often, it should not be remarked upon. 

But then, one of the last people to file out -- there she is! From the moment he sees her, Hannibal knows she’s perfect.

Her resemblance to Abigail Hobbs is remarkable; more than close enough for Hannibal’s purpose. She is slender, though not tall enough to be called willowy, pale of skin with long brown hair and a generically attractive face still clinging to a bit of childish youth. Hannibal makes a beeline for her immediately.

“Hello young miss,” he says with a polite bow. “I’m here to take you home.” He’s uncertain if she will have hired a cab, but it would not be unheard of to have a walking escort either, for a girl so young. She must be not yet twenty.

Unfortunately, she is immediately skeptical of Hannibal. She frowns up at him. “What happened to Francis? Has he somehow managed to become ill between dropping me off and now?” She is cautious, but not afraid enough to avoid Hannibal’s gaze, and that is her downfall.

“I’d like you to come with me, please,” says Hannibal quietly. He stares into her eyes until they go deep and distant, glassy with lack of awareness.

“Of course,” she mutters, and it sounds almost as if she’s saying it in her sleep.

Hannibal puts one hand on her elbow and the other modestly on her back and steers her out the door and down the street a ways. It would be too obvious this close to the theater. Must leave some room for the imagination. He picks up the wicker basket on their way past the mouth of the alley.

After several blocks, Hannibal can be sure they’re not being followed; no overprotective onlookers or attentive coachmen trail in their wake. Excellent. He meets the girl’s gaze once more -- still blank, un-present. He steers her between two closed shops, another alley dark and forgotten. The city is full of them.

Hannibal sets the wicker basket down for later and regretfully draws out the knife. He’s hungry, and the taste of life in the body is incredibly tempting. But Garett Jacob Hobbs apparently used a knife for his victims -- certainly with his daughter. Whatever Hobbs’s reason -- cowardice, empathy for his daughter’s image -- Hannibal will not indulge himself just yet. He takes pleasure instead in anticipating the feast.

It has been tiring, his performance as the Hound. It is always disappointing to leave behind so much fresh meat. It has required peerless self-control. Not so, here.

Hannibal waits for his power to ebb from the girl. Waits for her to take in her surroundings, the strange man in front of her, the knife. Waits for the fear to flood her veins, flavoring her blood bright with panic. Then he uses the knife -- a quick, efficient slash across the throat. Just as Hobbs would have done. He lets the body slump to the ground.

Preservation before feast, Hannibal decides, as he watches her blood trickle its way between the cobbles. Her dying breaths bubble liquidly through her lips. Hannibal retrieves his basket.

Each of the metal jars is paired with a cork-like lid, affixed to the jar with loops of wire. The wire forms an ingenious latch, allowing him to lock the lids securely in place. The rubber around the bottom edge of the corks makes it a perfect seal. Even liquids are entirely contained within Hannibal’s little jars. He sets the basket down next to the body.

He pockets the knife for now. He’d rather do this part with his own hands. Garrett Jacob Hobbs almost certainly ate his victims in their entirety, so this will be a deviation no matter what. But Hannibal is playing a much longer game than the poor, simple soul that Will had dispensed with.

Hannibal allows his claws to manifest. His hands grow in size, become dark, dull black like shadowed stone on an empty night. The fingers elongate and sharpen into featureless, razor points. The transformation has barely completed before he is plunging the claws into her chest, snapping through the breastbone and ripping open the ribs. They part with a thick _crack_ , revealing the treasure chest of organs inside.

Already Hannibal’s hands are absorbing the blood. The liquid sinks into his skin like a sponge, feeding him with a desperation that bypasses the senses. Eager for taste, Hannibal lowers his head to the gaping, gushing wound and buries his face in the blood that bubbles up, eagerly drinking in the liquid. Color bursts bright and sharp on his tongue, tanged with fear. The delicious heat of Feeding warms him, a heady satisfaction. It sings in his blood, a rapturous melody.

Nothing in the human world compares to this -- not alcohol, not sex, nothing.

Hannibal’s fangs manifest without his direct intention, his mouth suddenly full of razor-sharp teeth. He can’t resist worrying a little at the edge of the wound, tearing off a little flesh and gulping it down. The blood smears deliciously on his face before being quickly absorbed. For once he’ll get to eat it all, feel the bones snap between his jaws, fill his belly with the flesh. But even like this, even suffused with the ecstasy of a feed, Hannibal’s control remains intact. He pulls back.

Hannibal removes the jars from his basket one by one and sets them next to the body. Carefully reaching into the open chest cavity, he uses a claw to sever the connections of the organs. One by one he removes them -- delicately, carefully -- and places them inside the jars. Everything he might want to eat later -- heart, lungs, liver, kidneys, even a little bit of the intestine for sausage. Self-restraint is the only thing that has kept him alive this long; He could gorge himself now, leaving nothing behind, but it would do nothing to assuage the Hunger. His need would come again, just as soon. 

If Hannibal had to kill every time he was hungry, he’d have been caught long before now.

The jars are full. Hannibal replaces them carefully in the basket to take home. Then he returns to the corpse, dead and cooling by this point.

Hannibal has to be careful where he touches the cobbles. In this level of frenzy, his skin absorbs the blood around him even without his direct intention to do so. Everywhere the blood sinks into him it leaves behind a dark black patch of his true skin. His body is desperate for the nourishment, but Hannibal wishes to leave enough blood behind, staining the cobbles, to point the investigation where he wills it.

Still, blood is all he need leave behind. With caution, he can enjoy the rest of the feast. Hannibal gazes at the remains of the girl, his mouth watering, hunger screaming for satisfaction. It roars within him, a triumphant beast. He descends once more to the flesh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haha happy Thanksgiving everyone.


	4. Barriers

Will goes to sleep early, and his dreams pull him under into a dark, uneasy place. A forest -- trees, their limbs coated in snow, raise branches to twine with their neighbors like fingertips pressed together, or like ribs caging the beating heart of the full moon visible beyond the frost-bitten bark.

Puffs of breath, cloud-like in the cold. A soft, animal breathing. A stag wanders through the forest, its hooves crunching careful through the icy rime shell over the snow. It is a dark creature for a dark woods -- instead of hair, its body is coated in sleek black raven feathers. Its antlers reach up and up, mimicking the branches in a dark reflection. The ravenstag is alert, wary of danger.

A sudden smell. Fear courses through the beast.

In the shadows, there are eyes. Red. Menacing. They stare at the stag in anticipation.

The stag doesn’t see them, though it feels their presence.

 _Run_ , Will wants to scream at the creature. _Run, get away from there. It will find you!_

The stag’s nostrils flare. It knows the other creature is present. It leaps, an immense bound, and it is off through the forest, dodging and weaving amidst the tree trunks.

The watcher is not far behind. The red eyes resolve into an enormous wolf, black as pitch. Its jaws are strangely large -- monstrously big compared to the rest of it, with teeth so huge and sharp that they spill from the jaw, overlapping the lips and struggling to mesh like jagged rocks at the bottom of a long and deadly fall.

The wolf is fast, and lighter than the stag, skidding along on top of the icy snow rather than sinking in. It pursues, swathed in a cloak of hunger that streams from it like a physical presence. The scent of the stag is in its nostrils now, and its hunger swells with want. Froth drips from the ludicrous jaws, sizzling where it drips on the snow.

The stag leaps through the forest, the powerful leg muscles uncoiling with the force of a gunshot at each bound. It practically flies, the snowy turf disappearing behind it in length after length. But still the wolf is on its heels. The scent is in the wolf’s nose now, and it will not be deterred.

Will wakes early in the morning -- much earlier than he’d like. He rubs his hands over his face, feeling disoriented and as fatigued as if he’d just been running, rather than sleeping. He groans behind his hands. Yesterday is a swirling mess of color in his mind; overlapping shades of death and hope and fear and discomfort and discovery. He needs a break from chaos for a bit. For once he’s actually glad to have a performance.

It’s an evening show, however, so there’s no need for him to have risen at -- Will checks the side-table clock -- 7:42 AM. He definitely needs the sleep; he doesn’t feel rested at all.

Nevertheless, Will knows himself well enough to know that he won’t get back to sleep at this point. With a sigh he heaves himself up into a sitting position. Now that he’s a little more aware, Will realizes that maybe waking up so early wasn’t entirely his own doing -- there seems to be some kind of commotion coming from outside. Will staggers to his feet and peers out the window down at the street.

An automobile is parked in front of the theater, a police badge painted on the side of the driver’s door.

Police? Will feels an icy shiver shake the base of his spine. What are they doing here? Are they here for him? Part of him wants to flee, imagines the worst -- they've decided that his killing of Garrett Jacob Hobbs was murder after all, and they’ve come to take him away. No, worse -- they’ve discovered his powers, and they’ve come to put him down, stop him from being a danger to others. They’ll execute him, and then send his body to the organization for dissection, so they can see what made the rahbenshtag tick.

A more rational part of Will knows that he needs to calm down. The police probably just need some further details from him, or something like that. And no matter what they’re here for, panic won’t help him. If they sense he’s nervous, they’ll think it’s because he’s guilty. He needs to calm down. 

Will takes deep breaths. In, out. Calm. He can do this.

He throws on the minimal acceptable clothing and heads downstairs. What he finds to his surprise, however, is that the police seem in no hurry to reach him. In fact they barely notice as he comes down the stairs. Instead, they seem engrossed in their conversation with the theater manager.

The manager, Mr. Froideveux, is a somewhat portly fellow, eager, earnest, and full of dreams bigger than his reality. He has a short, curly lion’s mane of hair that melds from the top of his head into an equal-length beard. He seems to think it gives him a regal, leonine appearance. But perhaps it is more dignified this way -- the general shape of his head and arrangement of his features are such that Will suspects if he were clean-shaven he’d present the appearance of a giant infant.

Will gets along well enough with Mr. Froideveux. He’s not unkind, and he’s been eager to keep Will happy, although Will knows this is more because of his own profitability than out of any sort of genuine affection. Still, he’s a man that holds no malice, and those can be rare.

He notices Will hovering at the base of the stairs and waves him over. Will swallows down the attempted resurgence of his nerves and approaches.

“Ah, Will!” says the manager, eager as usual for people to see him in his authoritative capacity as manager. “Come, come. These policemen were just asking after a murder that happened nearby!”

Mr. Froideveux looks at once horrified and elated by this turn of events. Not that he’s happy that someone died, Will is certain -- more excitement that his own life might involve this kind of intrigue. Mr. Froideveux is a man desperate for his life to be special, in whatever way possible.

Will looks to the policemen, waiting for a more detailed question. He doesn’t recognize either of the officers from the night of his encounter with Garrett Jacob Hobbs.

“A disappearance,” one of the officers corrects. He’s a tall man with a craggy face and a no-nonsense jawline. His eyes are piercing and suspicious. “A young woman disappeared last night, and this theater is the last place anyone saw her. We’re wondering if you remember encountering her, or if you witnessed any suspicious characters in the area.”

“Probably not,” Will admits. “I was very tired when I came in last night. I had a quick bite to eat in the kitchen and then went to bed. What does she look like?”

“Marissa Schur,” says the officer. “Age eighteen, just over five feet tall, long brown hair, brown eyes, pale complexion. She would've been wearing a simple green dress with light blue embroidery on the chest-piece. No notable jewelry. Ring any bells?”

Will has a sudden, horrible memory of the girl from the alley, torn open, her teeth bared behind missing flesh. He feels nauseous.

“No,” he says, “I don’t think so. I think I heard another girl with that description was killed down by the docks yesterday. Same criminal, you think?”

The policeman narrows his eyes, and Will regrets the question immediately. He shouldn't be drawing undue attention to himself.

“The Cassie Boyle case is unrelated. How do you know about that?”

“Oh, uh...” Will waves a hand vaguely. Remembering that they can feel what he feels, he does his best to project a sense of honesty and earnestness. “I think a friend told me about it. I really don’t know the details.”

The policeman is clearly still suspicious, but he lets the topic drop. Instead he turns back to the manager. “Please let us know if anyone on your staff has seen anything. It’s vital that we get any information as soon as possible. Understood?”

Mr. Froideveux nods and heaps assurances, and the officers depart. When they’re gone, the manager turns back to Will and beams at him.

“Another full house tonight!” he boasts. “Feeling well-rested, I hope?”

Will makes a noncommittal noise. The manager pats him on the shoulder companionably, a gesture which has always made Will feel vaguely uncomfortable with its familiarity.

“You know,” says the manager cheerfully, “I had someone down here yesterday, bought an entire season’s worth of tickets on behalf of a patron -- every single one of your shows. Basically always has a seat reserved when you’re on stage. The name he gave for the reservation was a Doctor Lecter. An admirer of yours?”

Will flinches. The manager is clearly digging for gossip. Will almost wishes he had something scandalous he could tell the man; Will would prefer it to the truth of the matter.

“I don’t know,” he hedges. “I guess he must be. I just met him a few days ago. He’s a friend of Miss Bloom’s.”

“Ah, Miss Bloom!” the manager sighs her name with a desperate eagerness. In addition to his delight towards a frequent patron of his theater, Will somewhat suspects that Mr. Froideveux has romantic designs in that general direction. A shame for him -- now that Will is in Lecter’s care, he suspects they will be seeing far less of Alana.

Will bids good day to the manger, and after evading his general fretfulness -- “Are you ready for tonight? Is there anything you need? Will you have time to do a prop-check before you go to costume?” -- makes his way to the back of the building and the small kitchen there.

The cook has just finished making breakfast when Will arrives. Large plates of bacon and sausage and steaming piles of scrambled eggs greet him. It’s plain, adequate food. Normally Will wouldn't think twice about it, but now he can’t help compare it to the heady taste and aromas of Lecter’s cooking from the previous morning. This food seems pale and drab by comparison.

Lecter. His ‘admirer.’ ‘Jailer,’ would perhaps be a more accurate term. Will is used to people conscientiously avoiding him whenever possible. The acute attention of Lecter is strange and disconcerting, even though Will knows that Lecter is only paying him said attention because it’s the man’s job to do so.

Will takes a heaping plate of sausage and bacon and smiles at the cook. The cook, a small scowling black woman who never seems pleased by anything, does not smile back. Their usual exchange.

Will takes the plate out through the back door of the theater and into the alley behind the building, seating himself on a wooden box. He glances around briefly to make sure no one is nearby -- a cursory inspection, as it is, after all, an alley -- and lets out a short, high-pitched whistle.

Seconds later, a brown furry head peers around the edge of the building at about knee height. A dog -- scruffy brown with tattered-looking black spots on its coat and a feathery show-off of a tail -- trots into the alley with tail wagging, followed closely behind by a pack of three other mutts. All are excited to see Will and happy in an uncomplicated, doggish sort of way. This is why Will loves animals.

Will takes only two sausages for himself. The rest he distributes in bits among the dogs, making them sit politely for the first few morsels before dumping the rest on the ground in a free-for-all. The mutts converge enthusiastically on the spilled meat until they become a furry circle of raised and wagging tails. Will pets the lead dog -- Winston, Will calls him -- while he eats. Dogs are wonderful. Their emotions are pure and uncomplicated. “Only three friends today, buddy?” Will asks him softly.

Winston’s fur is coarse and a little matted. Will wishes he could take the dog in, give him a proper bath. But he cannot keep animals in the theater -- the manager would pitch a fit if he knew Will was encouraging strays to even hang around the building’s back alley. But Will cares far more about the dogs than he does about his job. It seems like the theater performances become more tedious every time Will goes on stage. At this point he’d be almost happy to lose the job. Except for the part where he’d be left out on the street with barely a penny to his name, of course. That would be a significant downside.

Will finds his thoughts once again drifting to Lecter -- he wonders how the man manages such an extravagant lifestyle. No one else that Will had seen at the organization had seemed so conspicuously wealthy as the well-tailored Lecter. Maybe he was independently wealthy. He would have to be. Why, then, he chose to spend his life hunting monsters was anyone’s guess. Such a strange man.

The dogs finish eating and Will gives them a final pat and another sharp whistle combined with a flicking hand gesture. The dogs trot off. Will does his best to keep them trained, and Winston in particular takes to it very well. The pack leader is always coming by with a different assortment of compatriots -- sometimes just a few other dogs, sometimes as many as seven or eight. But they know that when the food’s gone, it’s time to get away before they’re seen.

Will wistfully watches the wagging tails disappear around the corner. He grabs the empty plate and heads back into the theater.

 

The rest of his day leading up to the performance is generally uneventful. Will spends a lot of time in his room, just thinking. He contemplates Lecter, he contemplates Abigail and how he might revive her. He thinks about the organization and the strange people there, and the theater and the unpleasantly average people here. He thinks about himself, about the powers he has, and about what that could possibly mean. He comes to no conclusions, but he feels better for having taken the metaphorical temperature of his own life.

He goes onto stage as usual, immersing himself in the character of Hamlet. It’s almost easier this way; easier to be someone else, to let their emotions be his, to not have to worry about his own life for a while. Hamlet’s world might be tragic, his fate terrible, but he’s fiction. All Will has to do is feel his feelings for a few hours, and then he can stop. If only the troubles of his own life could be brushed away as easily as dropping a curtain.

One doesn’t see much of the audience on stage, especially with the brightness of the new electric lights shining onto the stage and into the actors’ eyes. But there are a few scenes where the lights are dim enough that Will can make out faces, and in those moments he scans the crowd.

There he is. On the very edge of the row, towards the back, Lecter sits nonchalantly, looking far more elegant and dignified than such a small theater deserves. Will watches Lecter watching him, and can’t help but feel that when he finally drops Hamlet for the night, other thoughts and emotions will be waiting for him. He’s not sure yet what they will be.

Lecter waits around for him after the show, ambushing Will just outside the backstage door as he had previously with Alana. He falls into step at Will’s side as though it’s the most natural thing in the world. As though they hadn’t just met a scant few days ago. Will doesn’t want this to feel as comfortable as it does.

“Shall we do dinner again?” asks Doctor Lecter, sanguine.

“What, at the Divine Rose?” Will is tempted. He hates being in Lecter’s debt, but the promise of a meal so well-cooked... it’s difficult to pass up on so poorly-fed a stomach.

Lecter shakes his head minutely, a tiny frown barely creasing his forehead. “No, they were unfortunately rude. My preference would of course be to have you to my home. But it is too late at night to begin cooking a meal from scratch. Nevermind; there will be plenty of time for that at a future date. For now, there are enough restaurants of interest even in a meager city such as Baltimore to feed a discerning appetite.”

Will doesn’t meet Lecter’s gaze, but he’s very aware of the man nevertheless. “You’re going to go broke, feeding me all the time.”

Lecter waves his hand in a dismissive, ‘don’t mention it,’ sort of gesture. “It is my pleasure. What is money for if not to spend it on pleasures for oneself and one’s friends?”

The word ‘friend’ rattles Will. He tries not to let Lecter feel it, but he doesn’t hold out much hope that he’s able to conceal his unruly emotions. The word tastes bitter to Will, considering the situation.

“We’re not friends, are we?” Will asks. “You’re my monitor. You’re here because you’re being forced to observe me. I’m your job.”

Lecter stops, forcing Will to stop as well and face him as Doctor Lecter gives him an appraising, curious look.

“While I won’t deny the professional obligation I have to Jack,” Lecter says quietly, “I have no pressing reason to be here tonight other than the pleasure of your company. I need supervise you only on days when you are left to your own devices, and even then it is not necessary that our contact be daily. If you are made uncomfortable by my presence, you need only say the word and I will take my leave.” 

The man hesitates. “But it would be my... preference to continue our association. Perhaps you might think of our encounters less as mandatory escort and more as simple conversations between peers? Despite what you might assume about the deception I practiced when we first met, I was entirely in earnest about wanting to become your friend.”

“Why?” Will’s voice is harsher than he intends it to be. He doesn’t know how to handle someone genuinely wanting to be close to him. He keeps waiting for the attached strings, the ulterior motive. 

“I find you fascinating,” says Lecter placidly. “Is it so hard to believe that someone might take an interest in you?”

“Because I’m a new species, you mean?” asks Will bitterly.

“Because you’re an interesting person,” Lecter corrects. “You seem to me to be someone worth getting to know. I meet very few such individuals. It is a rare opportunity.”

Will stares at him a few moments, trying to read him. Trying to gauge his honesty. Lecter is difficult to read at the best of times, and Will is too flustered to concentrate on someone else’s emotions very well. Out of the blue, the manager’s accusation from that morning -- calling Lecter Will’s ‘admirer’ -- pops into Will’s head.

Will turns deliberately towards the door and continues walking, forcing Lecter to resume his pace as well. Will watches the carpet in front of him. “So, where did you want to go for dinner?” he asks.

A soft, pleased feeling from Lecter. The man does not acknowledge it verbally, but Will feels the emotion almost as clearly as if Lecter had vocally thanked him. “I was thinking possibly La Colombe. If you approve?”

Will shrugs. “I trust your judgement.”

 

The food, of course, is excellent. The restaurant itself is still a bit stuffy, although thankfully less so than the previous one. They didn't make a fuss about Will’s clothes this time, although to be fair he is wearing one of his nicest outfits (not that that’s saying much). Will lets Doctor Lecter order, trying to force himself to accept the man’s overtures with an open mind. Just because Will has never had a friend before shouldn't mean he’s technically incapable of it.

“I do apologize,” says Lecter as they bite into the chef’s specialty - saddles of venison. Will shivers with pleasure at the thick, savory flavor, lightened by fluttering undertones of herbs. He almost misses Lecter’s remark.

“Hmm?”

“The books I had intended to loan you -- it seems we got sidetracked before we could complete our original mission.”

Will shrugs and finishes chewing his current mouthful, swallowing before he responds. “I suppose I learned plenty about myself anyway.”

Lecter’s usual subtle smile scintillates briefly across his face like sun on the surface of moving water. “I suppose so. Nevertheless, perhaps we ought to make another attempt?”

Will is uncomfortable. He wants to show willing, wants to get along without causing too many waves, but- 

“I’m... uncomfortable there. At the headquarters, I mean. There’s so many people there, and they’re all curious about me, and it just feels... I don’t know. I don’t like feeling watched.”

“Strange problem for an actor,” Lecter notes. Will snorts, but doesn’t respond otherwise. He takes another delicious bite of venison.

“Nevertheless,” Lecter continues, “since you bring it up, I may have a solution to your problem.”

Will raises an eyebrow. “Do tell.”

Lecter inclines his head slightly in a self-deprecating gesture. “If I may be so presumptuous, it seems to me that the main source of your discomfort is your lack of training. As a shtag growing up with no access to others of your kind, and having not been discovered by the organization until recently, you never received instruction on how to deal properly with your abilities. There are ways to shield yourself from the invasive emotions of others. More than likely, this will also help to curb your projection.”

Will stops with another forkful halfway to his mouth. “Really?”

Doctor Lecter takes a bite of his own venison and chews it slowly, savoring the taste. His eyes close slightly in bliss, focusing on the sensation. Finally he swallows and opens his eyes once more. “Almost certainly. Whenever you are next free, I will introduce you to a colleague of mine. Shielding is her specialty; if she cannot train you, no one can.”

It almost sounds like a challenge, but Will chooses to be hopeful. Maybe, just this once, he’s due for a break. Wouldn't that be nice?

“I don’t have any performances on Thursday,” Will offers, trying to not sound overeager or, indeed, desperate -- which would be more accurate.

Hannibal smiles and gestures to the fork Will is still holding halfway to his mouth, encouraging him to complete the motion. Will does, and watches Hannibal’s eyes close partly in enjoyment of Will’s enjoyment of the taste. Such a strange synchronicity; it’s oddly refreshing to be able to please someone with his emotions, for once, instead of alienating everyone around him.

“Thursday, then,” says Lecter.

 

Wednesday night is another performance, and another evening meal with Doctor Lecter. The manager of the theater is already becoming used to seeing the man, and fawns over him as a regular patron that is clearly above the dignity of their small-time stage. By Thursday morning, Will has gone from feeling cautiously optimistic to dreading the day’s encounter -- his usual cynicism re-asserting itself.

Lecter comes to escort him as he did the last time Will had a day off -- bearing food. As they eat the thin slices of meat and savory spreads over thin, crisp bread, Lecter studies Will in that silent, contemplative way he has.

“There’s no need to be nervous.” Will can’t tell whether that slight undertone in Lecter’s voice is amusement.

Will shakes his head. “I’ll be fine. I want to do this, I just... Historically, I don’t have a lot of luck with trying to make positive changes in my life, I guess.”

“If you have difficulty trusting the whims of the universe, then trust me,” Lecter assures him. “I would not have made this offer if I did not think it could help you.”

Will shrugs, unconvinced. Instead he closes his eyes and takes a moment to savor the taste of the food Lecter has brought. It’s simple, but remarkably satisfying; flavorful without overwhelming. When Will opens his eyes again, he sees Lecter’s half-closed in an equal bliss. He should expect this reaction by now, but it still surprises him every time.

“It’s a little strange that you like watching me eat so much,” Will points out. Strange, but not entirely unpleasant. Not unwelcome.

Lecter has the decency to look slightly sheepish, although like all his expressions it is a thin whisper over his features. “My apologies if I make you uncomfortable. As a gourmand, I greatly appreciate taste in all its forms. And your projection of enjoyment from the food -- particularly food I have prepared, is... delicious to me. It is an unusual experience. Coupled with my own enjoyment of the food, I must admit it is quite pleasing.”

“I’m not... uncomfortable,” says Will. And he’s not. It’s difficult to define what he feels from this strange synchronization. Discomfort is close, but inaccurate. It gives Will a strange jittery feeling in his limbs, like an unfocused sort of nervousness.

Lecter continues to smile his small, inscrutable smile. Will decides not to worry about it and finishes his meal.

 

They drop by Lecter’s office first, to get the promised books. Luckily, the office -- along with a number of other large, homey-looking buildings -- is set away from the main, bunker-like structure of the complex. Will remembers Lecter telling him that the area used to be an old town, and the office buildings look like they were likely residences in their past life.

Lecter’s office itself is high-ceilinged, airy, with a balcony that spans three walls of the room midway up, elegantly supported by arches and columns. On this balcony is Lecter’s library, rows upon rows of bookshelves inset into the wall that, upon closer inspection, contain a wide variety of books -- not only on the supernatural -- in multiple languages.

“You get all this space just because you’re an expert on shtag?” Will asks.

Lecter takes a moment to locate a particular spine and draw it out from the bookshelf, placing the volume on top of two others already in Will’s arms. “Oh no, that is not my only function within the organization. I am in charge of evaluating and maintaining the mental health of those within our branch, for their safety and the safety of others. I often receive individuals here for guidance. This can be a very traumatizing field to work in, and not everyone handles the stress as well as we might hope.”

Books in hand, they leave Lecter's office and march up a narrow cart path to the top of a low hill nearby. The house set into the hill has surprisingly large windows; like Lecter’s office, Will’s first impression is of an airy welcome. His nervousness returns full force. The friendly house seems to loom above him, shadows cast onto the path transforming the scene into something eerie and foreboding in Will’s mind.

Lecter puts a comforting hand on Will’s shoulder -- although perhaps it is there to keep him from running -- and knocks on the front door.

The woman who opens it is blond, smartly-dressed, and has the sharpest eyes Will has ever seen. They look into him like the cut of a knife, instantly parsing him and segmenting him into easily digestible chunks. 

Will feels absolutely nothing from her.

It’s not like Lecter, whose emotions are always faint with calm and modulation. It’s not even like the people at the organization earlier, strangely muffled as though their emotions were surrounded in cottonwool. This woman is remarkably, miraculously blank. Will feels not a single hint of her emotions. All he has to go on is her facial expressions, which are well-schooled and at least as difficult to read as Lecter’s. Will stares at her in shock.

She smiles minutely in a way that reminds Will of Doctor Lecter. She steps aside and gestures into the room. “Won’t you come in?” she murmurs. Her voice is rich, like velvet.

Will enters into what appears to be, for all intents and purposes, the woman’s home. The sitting room she leads them into is business-like enough; two soft-looking leather chairs facing each other as though in conference. But the kitchen they pass on the way there has a clearly lived-in look to it, and there are stairs leading up to the suggestion of a bedroom. “You live here?” Will asks as he takes a seat in one of the two chairs. Doctor Lecter helps himself to a padded bench seat along one wall.

“Yes,” replies the woman. “The organization had the space, and I find it simpler to live and work in the same location. Less traveling into the hectic city.”

“I believe formal introductions are in order,” says Doctor Lecter from off to the side. “Will Graham, meet Doctor Bedelia Du Maurier. Doctor Du Maurier is responsible for the mental training of organization members. Typically she instructs humans, but you would not be the first shtag to learn from her.”

Doctor Du Maurier continues to smile pleasantly. Will tries desperately to find something to grab onto behind that smile. He feels strangely flat-footed, as though seeking handholds while climbing a rock face and finding it smooth as glass.

“I understand you have some difficulty being around people,” says Du Maurier. “Tell me, have you ever learned any kind of defense against such things? A way to retreat from the presence of others? Either something taught to you, or a coping mechanism you developed yourself?”

Will shrugs a bit. He feels uncomfortable opening up to such a blank and difficult-to-read woman, but then isn’t this the ultimate proof of her ability? She’s supposed to be able to teach him how to deal with the people around him, and she is perfectly invisible to his emotional senses. “Sometimes when I’m feeling stressed out in a crowd, I try to go somewhere in my head. Somewhere calm.”

Du Maurier nods. “Excellent. Good. That’s a fine place to start. What I’m about to teach you is a relatively simple process -- mastering it is less about technique than about willpower. Some people are able to grasp it instantly, while others take days, months, or even years of practice. We are all unique, so you mustn’t be discouraged if it does not come to you immediately.”

“What _are_ you teaching me, exactly?” asks Will.

“Shielding.” Du Maurier crosses her legs at the knee, leaning back in her chair. “I intend to teach you a mental technique to place a barricade between yourself and the thoughts of others. It likely won’t stop you from feeling the strongest elements within the emotions around you, nor will you be able to keep it up when you yourself are distressed or otherwise distracted of focus. But for plain, every-day purposes it should suit well enough, and hopefully it will ease your interactions with humans, making such encounters less painful for you. Shall we begin?”

Will nods. He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, preparing himself.

Du Maurier’s smile is knowing. She closes her eyes and inclines her head slightly. “Close your eyes,” she instructs. Will obeys.

“Now, take a deep breath. Hold it. Good. Let it out slowly. Again -- in. ...And out. Good. Try to continue breathing in this way while you listen to my voice. I want you to picture yourself in your place of calm. What does it look like?”

“It’s a stream,” says Will. “A river, near where I grew up. I used to go fishing there.”

“Good.” Du Maurier’s voice is an even, melodic whisper. “Picture yourself at the stream. Wade into it. Feel the comfort and peace of it envelop you like a shell. This place is safe. It is secure and known, and it will always be calm.”

Will feels like he’s floating in Du Maurier’s voice. He can almost feel the river water soaking into him, swirling past him.

“This place is what you will it. It is tranquil. The temperature is exactly what you dictate. The light is exactly what you dictate. In this place you and only you are in total control.”

Will breathes in and out. The golden autumn banks of the river seem to swell and release, as though breathing with him.

“Now look into the distance. Notice that at the edge of this calm place, the world curves. Watch it carefully -- the scene, the entire world around you, this place of safety, is inside a sphere. Look closely and you can see how it is painted onto the inside of a ball, enveloping you, surrounding you completely. This is not a frightening thought, because this is a place of calm. It is calm that surrounds you, peace that protects you. This area is under your control, and so you are at its center. You are powerful, and the world draws in around you.”

Will feels it. The scene does not seem to change noticeably, but suddenly Will senses that he is inside a globe, that the world around him is somehow a shell, like being encased in an egg or a womb, safe with the protection of the not-yet-born.

“How do you feel?” asks the liquid voice of the doctor. She is the stream running through and around him.

“Protected,” murmurs Will softly. He can only barely feel his body. His senses are entirely focused on the space inside his mind. It is more real to him in this moment than the outside world.

“Good.” Du Maurier’s voice is a soothing monotone. “This world is small. Realize that its outer boundaries are the boundaries of your own mind. This space resides within your skull, with you safe at its core. It is always here for you. It is always the space of your mind. You are always at its center, even though you may forget it at times. You can always return here.”

Will feels himself nod slightly. The river sloshes in its banks, as though jostled by the movement.

“Now.” Du Maurier’s tone changes minutely, a new force of determination underneath the steadying calm. “Picture the walls surrounding your space as glass. They are clear; they can be seen through. Through this space, you can see the outside world. You are looking out through your own eyes, but you are still within the center of this space. This space is inside your head, and therefore you can see out of your eyes normally.”

Will’s eyes open, and he is momentarily frightened. He doesn’t want this space to connect to the real world. It is safe because it is separate. He doesn’t like this window.

“The outside world cannot harm you,” Doctor Du Maurier asserts. “Picture the glass walls of your sanctuary, and thicken them. They grow thicker, thicker, thicker, until they are thick as steel walls, thicker than any vault or palisade. Miles thick, and yet you can still see through the glass clear as day. Clear as if it weren’t there at all. Your safe space is a fortress. You are in control here. Nothing can touch you here without your consent.”

Rather than make a conscious effort to change his internal world, it’s more as though Will suddenly realizes that Du Maurier is correct. He is safe here. Nothing can reach him behind these walls. They are too thick -- infinitely thick. He will always be safe here.

Will takes a deep, relieved breath and lets it out again. He looks at Du Maurier, who is looking back at him with curious, half-lidded eyes.

“Is that it?” Will asks, surprised.

“Carry this space with you wherever you go,” Du Maurier instructs. “You can always return to it if you need it. If you start to feel intrusion into your mind, the discomfort of others’ emotions, remember the thickness of your walls. Strengthen them. Hide behind them, if necessary. This will be a place of safety and calm for you.”

Will nods. “How can I tell if it’s working?”

A small smile quirks ever-so-slightly at the corner of Du Maurier’s lips. “I’m allowing my own emotions free range now. Can you feel them?”

Will shakes his head. He feels nothing from her. She is as blank as when he entered the house. But -- Will startles slightly, and looks towards Lecter -- so is the other doctor. Lecter is a blank slate to him, just as smooth and invisible as Du Maurier. Will feels nothing from the man.

“I- I think it’s working,” Will stutters. He rises slightly in his chair, surprised. He pictures himself in his mind moving forward through the stream, wading to the banks until he can press himself against the glass walls, ear to the surface. Hannibal’s pale, calm emotions return to him with all the grace and gentle restraint of sunlight filtering down through leaves. Will finds that by retreating and advancing back and forth within himself, he can control how much he feels of the man’s emotions as easily as opening and closing a curtain to let in light.

“Good,” says Du Maurier, inclining her head once more. “I had imagined you would be proficient at this. You have all the signs of an immensely strong will power.”

“Congratulations,” Doctor Lecter offers. “Would you like to take this opportunity to test your new skills?”

With an uncharacteristic confidence, Will nods. The serenity of the space Du Maurier described stays with him, so that he feels unnaturally calm and centered within himself. There’s a great deal he feels as though he could accomplish at the moment.

“Thank you,” says Will sincerely, turning back to Du Maurier. “Thank you for doing this for me.”

She smiles and says nothing, merely nodding in acknowledgement.

Doctor Lecter leads the way out of the woman’s home. Will can feel a faint sense of pride and accomplishment from the man, as though Will were a star pupil who had just proved himself in a difficult test. “If you would ever like more extensive training -- advanced techniques, ways to use your powers, and so on -- we can return at a later date. I could schedule you another session.” 

Will falls into stride with him as they make their way back down the hillside path. “Maybe. We’ll see how well this really works, I guess.” He frowns slightly. “I thought you said supernaturals weren’t allowed to work for the organization?”

Lecter’s emotions shut off so quickly that Will stumbles slightly. One moment Will had felt the usual calm good-natured enjoyment that the man customarily wears, the next he is like a brick wall, completely devoid. Will turns to look at him, eyes wide, wondering where he suddenly went. It takes Will a moment to realize that Lecter himself must be shielding, must be hiding his emotions in exactly the same way as Du Maurier had just explained.

“What brings that up?” Lecter asks, his voice neutral. He has stopped walking, and so Will stops as well and turns to face him.

Suddenly Will doubts himself, unsettled. He feels as though he’d just gone to step on firm ground and found nothing beneath his foot. “Doctor Du Maurier -- she’s shtag, right? You said -- I thought -- supernaturals weren’t supposed to be involved in organization business? But you said she trains people for you...?”

Still, Lecter’s emotions are controlled so tightly that Will feels nothing. Not a single drop of his intent. His face is just as carefully blank. “What makes you think she’s shtag?”

“I-” Will breaks off. What _does_ make him think she’s shtag? All of a sudden he’s not sure. He hadn't thought about it, hadn't tried to put his finger on it before. But she is. He’s absolutely certain that she is, without question; it hadn't even occurred to him to doubt this fact. He just doesn’t know why.

Will shrugs. “I don’t know. She’s shtag. I guess I just... recognize her, somehow? Didn't you know?”

Lecter starts walking again. His emotional barriers relax enough that Will can faintly feel concern from him, as well as surprise. “She is shtag. But no one else knows. It is a tightly-kept secret -- you mustn't reveal her to the organization. Please. For her sake.”

So Will is not the first shtag that Lecter has kept secrets for. He files that bit of knowledge away for later consideration. Instead, Will nods, coming back into step with Lecter. “Of course. Her secret’s safe with me, for whatever it’s worth.”

“Good,” says Lecter succinctly. 

They continue their way down the hill, both silently wrapped in their own contemplation. When they reach Lecter’s carriage at the outskirts of the old town walls, Will climbs aboard without a word.

Will spends most of the carriage ride staring at his hands, practicing his breathing. Though he knows it hasn't left him -- can’t leave him, really -- he spends the time practicing his vision, his place of inner calm. Ensuring that it’s still there. And so he’s a bit startled when he hears Lecter knock on the back wall of the carriage and murmur, “This seems as a good a place as any.”

Will looks up and has a moment of panic. They've stopped at the edge of a busy intersection in central Baltimore. It is still early afternoon, and the place is a bustle of traffic -- pedestrian, carriage, even the occasional automobile. Will’s breath catches in his throat. He always avoids the city at this level of activity. Always.

Lecter opens the door to the carriage and exits first, holding it open for Will and gesturing him out.

Heart in his throat, Will climbs down. He swallows and looks around, expecting an onslaught, expecting to be buried in the worries and cares and little joys and sorrows of everyday life, cacophonous all around him.

He feels nothing. Silence. No -- no, if he approaches the walls of his sanctuary, he can still feel them a little. They are muffled, as though through cotton -- just like the people he’d met in the organization’s lab. But it’s nothing compared to the usual din. And if he retreats back into himself, it’s absolutely nothing. Nothing at all. Just pure, calm silence.

Will feels relief and gratitude swamp him like a tide, choking him up and bringing unexpected tears to prick at the corner of his eyes. It’s as though every day of his life, everyone has been shouting at him, screaming directly into his ears. And now, suddenly, they whisper. The silence of it is blissfully deafening.

Will feels Hannibal come up behind him and put a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“Thank you,” Will chokes out, emotions clogging his throat. He is like a near-drowned man, gulping in his first breath of air. Hannibal’s hand squeezes his shoulder lightly in acknowledgement. “Thank you so much.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aw, shit. I just re-watched episode 3 of the first season and realized I have a huge missed opportunity in Chapter 3 of this fic. I may have to go back and re-write it. Shit, shit, shit. Mrrgh. This is why I usually try and write so far ahead, instead of posting as I go. Alright, keep an eye out in this space; I'll leave a note if and when I decide I need to go back and change the last scene of that chapter.


	5. Hospitality

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guuuuys. You guys, I'm so sorry I haven't updated this in over nine months. -_- I have no good excuse, really I don't. Life was busy, but honestly it's more that this chapter was just a real bitch to get out. I re-wrote the ending to it literally like three times, and I'm still not sure I'm happy with it. And I can't even offer you guys a particularly long chapter to make up for the wait, either. My humblest apologies. I do have a fairly strong idea of what I want to do for the next chapter though, so hopefully I'll be able to post it in fewer than nine months this time...

Hannibal watches as Will practically sobs with relief upon encountering a midday crowd and feeling nothing. Hannibal knows Will’s shields are working -- he can feel much less than usual from the shtag, only the barest hints of projected emotion. Sometimes not even that. He’s proud of Will; not everyone takes to shielding so easily and quickly. Only his ability to consistently maintain his shields remains to be seen, but Hannibal has high confidence in him.

Hannibal gives Will the privacy of silence for as long as it takes Will to gather himself. He doesn’t need to feel Will’s emotions to know that the shtag is particularly vulnerable in this moment.

“Quite the achievement,” says Hannibal. “You should be proud of yourself. Perhaps, to celebrate, you would consider coming back to my home and sharing dinner with me? It is always pleasant to have company while one cooks. Afterwards I can call you a coach home if you have an early performance tomorrow, or you might spend the night in my guestroom, if you wish.”

Will doesn’t look at him, and Hannibal doesn’t try and force contact; in times of vulnerability, Will seems most comfortable retreating into his own solitude. He lets Will silently stew in his own considerations. Finally, Will nods.

“Alright. That sounds good.”

Hannibal is pleased, and helps Will back into the carriage. Will’s shields are still in place, but his body language is calm and and open; in direct contrast to his usual nervous energy. Hannibal can only imagine the relief this lesson must have brought him.

Halfway there, Will suddenly laughs out loud apropos of nothing. “I’ll have to get Doctor DuMaurier a gift. This is amazing.”

Hannibal smiles. “It is your own skill and concentration that makes it possible. You merely needed a small push in the right direction.”

Will shakes his head, more in apparent disbelief than disagreement. “What a difference this would have made growing up. My whole life would have been something else. I might have been a completely different person.”

Hannibal thinks that would have been a shame, but says nothing. Will seems surprisingly open to small-talk and rambles aimlessly as they make their way to Hannibal’s home. Perhaps it is his newfound relief and relaxation, or perhaps he is simply so unaccustomed to being alone in his own head that he finds the silence unnerving. Whatever the reason, Hannibal absorbs his chatter with a small, satisfied smile. It’s good to see Will cheerful for once.

Upon their arrival at the house, Hannibal dismisses the coachman. As the carriage drives off, he hears Will give a low whistle behind him, impressed. He’s staring at the house. As he hears Hannibal approaching he stiffens.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to be rude,” he mutters.

Hannibal shrugs. “No apologies necessary. It is a bit... ostentatious, perhaps. But I prefer comfort, and see no reason to deny myself.”

Hannibal’s home is admittedly quite large. It could not quite be called a mansion, but the two-story home is quite large enough for a family of six or seven; far more than is necessary for a bachelor like Hannibal. The place fairly drips elegance and taste, all the more so once they step inside and Hannibal leads the way to the kitchen. Will’s eyes dart constantly, taking in every detail like a wary animal. He thankfully refrains from turning his head like a gawking tourist; he is evaluating, but in a way that presents as keen and insightful, rather than thunderstruck. Hannibal approves.

Will’s eyebrows do rise, however, at the sight of the kitchen. Hannibal feels a puff of pride; the kitchen is one of the few parts of his house he truly cares about. The place is well-equipped and impeccably ordered. Hannibal indicates a door off to the side of the room and opens it to reveal the icehouse: a walk-in closet of metal shelves and enormous standing blocks of ice. He steps in to pull out a preferred cut of meat.

“That place is huge,” Will comments. “Do you really cook for people that often?”

“The icehouse is one of the reasons I chose this particular home when I arrived in Baltimore,” Hannibal admits. “It has outdoor access on the other side for convenience of ice delivery; the freshness of my ingredients is very important to me, so I take measures to preserve whatever cuts of meat I acquire, as well as other perishables, of course. I often host dinner parties when I can find the time and inspiration. It is one of my great pleasures.”

“I can see that,” says Will. He follows Hannibal back into the kitchen and takes a seat on a stool at the counter while Hannibal begins to cook. “Anything I can do to help?” he asks.

“Your charming presence is quite enough,” says Hannibal placidly. “Cooking alone can often feel isolating; having someone nearby to keep me company while I cook is almost as pleasant as having someone to cook for.”

Will gives him a skeptical look, like he doesn’t quite believe Hannibal’s sincerity, but he doesn’t argue the point. 

Hannibal makes bourguignonne, in part because he has leftover lung and loin that suit the dish nicely, and in part because the preparation is a bit ostentatious and he feels a somewhat childish desire to show off in front of Will.

For his part, Will is clearly unpracticed at being a conversation partner, often lapsing into long and strange silences that he spends enshrouded in his own mind. Hannibal gets the impression that he is not often called upon to be in someone’s extended company for so long. But Hannibal doesn’t mind. He wasn’t lying when he told Will that he enjoys the man’s presence. Most humans -- or supernaturals, for that matter -- are of interest to Hannibal only insofar as they are useful, usually for their meat. But Will is fascinating to him, and even the moments of quiet allow him opportunity to further study this strange man.

“That smells amazing,” Will says abruptly after a particularly long silence, as though suddenly remembering that he is not alone in the room.

“It is almost finished,” Hannibal informs him. He takes the toasted baguette out from the oven and pours the wine into the decanter to let it breathe. “The meat must simmer another ten minutes or so, and then we may eat.”

“You cook like this all the time?” Will asks skeptically. “Just for yourself?”

“A fine meal is improved by the care taken to create it; the effort enriches the flavors. But alas no, I do not so often these days. It is time-consuming, as you notice, and much as I enjoy the practice, I find my duties with the organization keep me busy. But I try to cook so at least once or twice a week, and the icebox allows me to store leftovers to eat later. These modern ovens can control temperature quite precisely for re-heating.”

“That’s a lot more effort than I could ever see myself going to,” Will admits. “It’s pretty impressive that you care so much about food.”

“Eating is the source of life,” Hannibal informs him as he spreads an herbed tomato puree onto the pieces of toast, “the wellspring of our vital energies. And it’s something we spend a great deal of our time doing. It seems only sensible that we should enjoy it as much as possible.”

“I suppose that’s true.” There is a subtle, almost self-deprecating humor to Will’s tone that Hannibal quite enjoys. He finishes preparing the meal and plates it with a well-practiced flair, ushering Will ahead of him into the dining room to serve.

It’s a meal that he suspects Will will enjoy -- a hearty mix of savory, comforting flavors that, although elevated by Hannibal’s cuisine, is solid and uncomplicated enough to please a simple palette. For all his other virtues, Will’s taste still requires refinement to bring it up to what Hannibal considers an acceptable level.

Hannibal is almost as proud of his dining room as he is of his kitchen. The walls are strewn with potted herbs, giving the place a fresh, earthy scent. Hannibal deposits two fastidiously-arranged plates of beef bourguignonne across from one another at the dark and stately dining room table and gestures for Will to take his seat first.

The slight nervous twitching of Will’s hands tells Hannibal that he is eager to eat, but he waits politely while Hannibal pours the wine and takes his own seat. Hannibal raises his glass. “To changing one’s life for the better,” he says with a smile.

Will lifts his glass, almost making eye contact but shying away at the last minute. He sips the wine and then picks up his cutlery eagerly. Hannibal smiles to himself and watches as Will digs in.

The noise that escapes Will at the first taste is nothing short of a moan, practically sexual in its enthusiasm. Hannibal pauses with a bite halfway to his own mouth as a powerful wave of appreciation washes over him.

Hannibal is not sure if Will has lost control of his shields, has intentionally lowered them, or has forgotten about them entirely, but as they eat Hannibal finds himself awash in Will’s enjoyment of the food. As strongly as he projected Hamlet’s grief, Will now projects the visceral enjoyment of taste, the bursting depth of flavor and the warm pleasure of satisfied hunger. Will is such a strange creature -- so difficult to read, in some ways -- that Hannibal finds himself uncharacteristically thrown off-balance. Will’s pleasure is instinctive, is freely shared and reveled in, entirely unselfconscious, and Hannibal soaks it in like a sponge.

Hannibal has very rarely known satisfaction, at least as far as hunger is concerned. It is not in his nature to be satiated. But the pleasure of Will’s dining, the sheer contentment of food perfectly to taste, is as near to it as Hannibal has ever come. It’s a strange, alien bliss that Hannibal savors every bit as much as the food itself. It sparks a hidden lust in him, a warm tingling that suffuses his skin. He reigns it in carefully, not wanting Will to sense it and spook.

He watches Will surreptitiously over the course of the meal, trying to gauge whether or not Will is doing this on purpose. It seems rather serendipitous that it would be this very moment that he chooses to forget his shielding. Perhaps he is offering Hannibal his pleasure as a form of gratitude? It seems a highly subtle and intimate gift, one that would be unexpected from Will but not entirely outside the realm of possibility. Or is he really as unselfconscious as he appears, and unaware of the effect he is having on Hannibal?

Will does not seem to notice Hannibal’s observation, but whether this is due to his enjoyment of the food or his typical aversion to eye contact is difficult to say. He does pause several minutes into the meal to say, “Hannibal, this is _amazing_ ,” as though Hannibal couldn’t feel the sentiment from him as clear as though Will had whispered it into his ear.

“I’m glad you approve,” Hannibal murmurs. His curiosity is aflame, but he does not voice it. On the off chance that Will is unaware that he is projecting, Hannibal does not wish to alert him to the fact. Instead, the doctor quietly finishes his own meal in the radiant warmth of Will’s pleasure, hiding his own behind a small, satisfied smile.

When they have finished eating, Will leans back comfortably in his chair. “You really weren’t kidding about loving to cook, huh?” he asks conversationally. His personality has thawed considerably. Whether from the food or his earlier success at shielding, Will seems far more at ease with Hannibal than he was previously. Hannibal is not sure how long it will last, but he takes it as a positive sign.

“Indeed. Come, why don’t we enjoy a brandy in the sitting room? It will aid the digestion. I shall start a fire.”

The sun has gone down while they ate. The only illumination in the dining room is a set of gas lights behind glass on the far wall and a kerosene lamp burning between them, throwing intimate shadows onto their faces. Hannibal picks up the lamp and leads them through a door into the sitting room where a ready-built fire lies cold and awaiting spark in the hearth.

“I would’ve thought you’d be wired up for electric,” Will notes as Hannibal stoops to light the fireplace.

“I prefer the natural ambiance of firelight, to tell the truth,” says Hannibal. “Electric light is certainly quite convenient, but it takes the magic from the night, wouldn’t you say?”

Will shrugs, but his expression is faintly amused. “I don’t really think about it much. The theater’s all bulbs now. You get used to it.” He takes a seat in one of the two plush armchairs facing the hearth, sinking into it with a soft sigh.

“It seems I am destined to be a dinosaur, clinging on to the old ways,” Hannibal mourns facetiously. “Too much a romantic, I fear.”

“That seems very you.”

Hannibal pours them each a finger of brandy, holding his own under his nose and letting the rich aroma curl up into his nostrils, delighting his olfactory senses with a smokey burn. Will’s shields are mostly back up now, although a faint contentment can still be felt from him, as soft and warm as the light in the hearth.

“Would you like to stay the night?” Hannibal offers. “I have more than one guest room, and it is getting a bit late to call you a carriage.”

“Sure,” says Will. “I don’t have anything pressing tomorrow morning. Thanks.”

“Of course.”

“No, I mean,” Will is suddenly stilted and awkward again, clearly unused to expressing a serious human connection. “Thank you. For- for today. For taking me to see Doctor DuMaurier. I’ve never felt this... this in control of myself. Of the world. It’s kind of...” he pauses and laughs a little, like he’s making fun of himself. “I feel almost a little drunk, to be honest. It’s exhilarating, the possibilities.”

Hannibal smiles into his brandy. “I assure you, dear Will, it was my pleasure.”

 

Hannibal is cooking when Will finally makes his way downstairs the following morning. It’s not late in the day by normal standards, but Hannibal needs little sleep and has always been an early riser. 

Will is washed and as tidied as he can be in yesterday’s clothes, but he still looks sleepy and only half-aware as he shuffles into the kitchen. Hannibal is feeling decadent this morning, and is making a french toast stuffed with a whipped chocolate ganache. He sets a plate in front of Will along with coffee, and watches Will inhale deeply, blinking rapidly as he comes suddenly more awake.

“Did you sleep well?” Hannibal asks politely.

Will nods. “Yes, thank you.” He seems oddly withdrawn, considering how open he’d been the previous night. Hannibal is not certain of the cause, but he is patient. He digs in to his own toast, waiting.

Eventually, Will says abruptly, “I’d like to go see Abigail again today. If... that’s allowed.” Will scowls briefly at the countertop, as though annoyed with his own lack of subtlety. He takes a sip of his coffee.

“Certainly,” Hannibal replies. “If that’s what you wish. I can telephone you a carriage to take you after breakfast. I myself have some research I must do today, so I’m afraid I shall not be joining you. Or, at least, I shall join you only as far as the headquarters, and then I must leave you to your own devices.”

Will nods, takes a bite of toast and then, as though remembering himself, mutters, “Thank you.”

The strange surliness of Will Graham is endlessly fascinating to Hannibal, and he smiles behind his coffee. For whatever reason, he is not treated to the same marvelous empathic response to his cooking this morning that he received last night. Though Will is clearly enjoying the food, he projects none of those sensations outward. Whether this is because he is more conscientious today about his shielding, or because he has something else he is trying to avoid sharing is unclear. 

Nevertheless, Will’s company is still preferable to almost anyone else Hannibal would care to have sitting at his kitchen table. He exhibits none of the anxious need to fill silences with inane chatter that Hannibal so loathes (his relieved ramblings in the carriage yesterday notwithstanding); he speaks only when he has something to say. And he is clearly making an effort towards dignity and politeness in Hannibal’s presence that Hannibal appreciates, especially since he knows that must not come easily to Will.

They finish their breakfast quietly, and Hannibal telephones for a carriage. He can tell that Will is uncomfortable with the expense, feeling himself further indebted to his observer, but he is polite enough -- or perhaps uncomfortable enough -- not to mention it. 

For Hannibal’s part, he hardly considers it. He far prefers the subtlety of a carriage to the audacious noise of an automobile, and the solitude necessary for his lifestyle demands that he not have a coachman on staff. Because of this, he keeps a running account with a local coach service. They’re happy enough to have the business; it’s becoming tighter and tighter as more automobiles fill the streets.

“Shall we?” he asks when the coach arrives, gesturing for Will to precede him. Will goes quietly. He still seems nervous, preoccupied, and it piques Hannibal’s curiosity like a promising scent.

“Is there a particular reason you wish to see Abigail again?” he asks. The noticeable flinch from Will tells Hannibal he’s on the right track.

“I...” Will stops talking almost as soon as he starts, and takes a clear moment to gather his thoughts and consider what it is he really wants to say. “You said you feel... obligation, right? Towards her. For saving her life.” He stares out the window as he says it, only glancing at Hannibal out of the corner of his eye at the very end.

“A life is no small debt. Saving a life cannot help but have rippling consequences that move everyone around it, in ways both obvious and subtle.”

“I feel a bit... rippled,” Will murmurs. “Like a disturbed pond. I’m not quite able to settle back down yet.”

“You are at the center of the disturbance; you will see most what changes the ripples will bring. Be careful not to let yourself capsize.” Hannibal says. ‘And who knows what reflections we shall see when the ripples clear,’ he thinks, but this part he does not say out loud.

Hannibal’s stop is first. “I will instruct the coachman to wait for you outside the hospital, to ferry you home afterwards,” Hannibal tells Will as he steps out. Will sputters and tries to protest, but Hannibal holds up a hand. “I insist,” he murmurs. “It’s not a particularly long ride, but it would be an arduous walk, and I would spare you the trouble.”

Will bites his lip, clearly uncomfortable, but nods and sits back. Hannibal sends the coach off with its instructions and heads up the road towards Bedelia’s home.

She seems unsurprised to see him when he arrives, and opens the door wordlessly, sweeping him in with her usual stoic grace. Hannibal nods to her politely and they make their way to her sitting room, sinking into the leather armchairs warm from the mid-morning sun.

“Well?” Hannibal asks after a moment. “How do you find your newest pupil?”

Bedelia gives him a measured look, silent for a long moment. Then she stares over his shoulder into the distance, collecting her thoughts brick by brick to build them into words. She is not one to speak thoughtlessly. Her shapely nails drift back and forth across the arm of her chair as she thinks.

“I don’t believe Will Graham’s quick success in picking up shielding techniques can be attributed to his own innate concentration or calmness of mind,” she says slowly. “I believe he picked it up so quickly because he was learning from me.” Her tone is even, almost testing - she’s curious how Hannibal will reply.

“I take it you do not mean that as a boast regarding your skills as a teacher,” Hannibal responds, just as calmly. Inwardly, however, he is pleased. This is largely what he had been hoping she would tell him.

“You named him well, your Rahbenshtag. I don’t believe he fully understands when he is mirroring, and to what extent. He felt my use of the techniques and unconsciously reflected them back to me, flawlessly. My power becomes his power. My control, my concentration. And he doesn’t even know he’s doing it.”

Bedelia pauses, and levels a long look at Hannibal. Hannibal feels she is trying to peer into him, although she is well aware that his control is absolute, his mind an impenetrable fortress despite her considerable skills in this area.

“I wonder what he reflects when he’s with you,” she murmurs.

Hannibal smiles.


	6. Connection

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hahaha. "Hopefully I'll be able to post it in fewer than nine months this time..." I said. Nope.

Will feels awkward leaving the coachman waiting at the door, but not so awkward that he tells the man to leave. It’s Lecter’s decision, Will figures -- if Lecter wants to spend money on him, then so be it. Anyway, he has more important concerns. Specifically, Abigail Hobbs. He doesn’t have any more concrete of a plan than he had yesterday, but the need to see her is strong. He’s certain there must be something he can do to help her.

The nurse at the front desk makes him sign in with his name and the time of his arrival. Will feels unduly paranoid about leaving a physical record of his presence, but he does his best to brush it off.

As he’s leaned over the desk, he hears a familiar voice down the hall. He glances to the side to see Jack Crawford, back facing Will, gesturing wildly at someone in front of him. His voice is angry, but just low enough that Will can make out the tone without being able to discern individual words. Will cranes around to see who he’s talking to, and freezes.

He can’t see much of Freddie Lounds besides her mop of fiery curls, but there can be no mistaking the bounty hunter for anyone else. Will’s glance darts around wildly for an escape route. A confrontation with Lounds is about the last thing he wants right now. If she and Jack are both here, one or the other of them is almost certainly intending to visit Abigail. Rather than risk an encounter, Will would much rather find someplace safe and quiet to wait them both out.

To one side of the nurse’s station is a pair of double doors with small glass windows; they seem to open onto the outside. Will hurriedly pushes his way through them, head down and face turned away to avoid being recognized.

He emerges into a surprisingly large, fenced-in garden. A path snakes amidst a series of flower beds and the odd tree with a bench beneath it. It’s a strange little hidden grotto; maybe it’s where patients come to relax when they need some fresh air, but aren’t allowed to leave the hospital?

Will breaths a sigh of relief and plunges his hands into his pockets, making his way towards the nearest bench. Hopefully he can just kill a little time here and avoid Freddie and Jack altogether. Certainly Abigail’s not going anywhere.

The garden has a strange sort of quiet that appeals to Will. It’s difficult to describe; it’s not just the lack of other people. It has its own stillness, a certain whisper even to the wind. Will gets to the bench beneath the tree and sits, closes his eyes and leans back with a breathy sigh. Sunlight through the boughs of the tree dapples his face, playing warmth across his skin.

He tries to take the time to formulate a plan to help Abigail. He’s aware he isn’t thinking very far ahead, but the desire to protect her is fiercely strong in him. Why, he’s not sure. He wants to think it’s more than just guilt over killing her father. If he can just find a way to connect with her, somehow, he’s sure he can help her. At the very least, he can find a way to wake her up.

It’s silly wishful thinking, he’s well aware. What exactly is supposed to happen after that? She’ll come live with him in the theater? Subsist with him on the salary that barely feeds Will? He barely knows her. Hell, she probably has a mother somewhere out there, for all the woman hasn’t shown up yet.

But even knowing that, it doesn’t stop him wanting to help. Desperately. More than he’s wanted anything in a long time. Maybe it’s tied to this sudden strange upheaval in his life. Maybe he wants to help her because he can’t help himself, can’t control these strange new revelations about himself. Maybe he’s clinging to her as a point of stability in the sudden turmoil of his existence. 

Will huffs out a breath of frustration and leans forward. He opens his eyes and sees, between his feet, a delicate white mushroom. He blinks at it. It seems almost to glow, it’s so finely translucent. It’s an oddly playful object, and Will smiles at it.

His glance falls on another, near the edge of his foot. Now that he looks around, he notices that there is actually a small trail of them leading around the base of the bench. With an indulgent smile he turns his head to follow the trail with his eyes as the tiny beads of white mushroom heads twist and snake through the lush grass, turning and curving like their own little cobblestone path, until they finally end at a-

“Oh,” Will says out loud.

A gravestone. And another next to it. Will glances around. It’s a graveyard. A small graveyard attached to the hospital. The headstones are small, humble, hidden enough amidst the foliage that they didn’t jump out at him immediately. But now that he knows to look for them he can see them nestled with regular frequency in the grassy patches along the path. No wonder the place feels so still. Will swallows.

His roaming eyes suddenly halt. There -- a man, behind the tree that shades the bench. Watching him. Will hadn’t heard him approach. He’s momentarily terrified of the fact that he can’t sense the man’s emotions, before he remembers his own shields. It’s still strange, having a wall between himself and the rest of humanity.

“Oh, uh, hello,” Will says awkwardly. “I didn’t, uh, I didn’t see you there.”

The man stands partly behind the tree, the bottom of his face obscured by one of the giant, disc-like funguses protruding from the bark of the trunk. Above the fungus his eyes are a little too close together -- soulful big, but blank. His nearly-bald, wrinkled head is tilted slightly downward, as though he’s listening to something.

“Con... nect?” the man murmurs. Or at least that’s what it sounds like. It’s difficult to hear his low and thready voice.

Will feels distinctly uncomfortable, for no particular reason he can understand. “Sorry, I uh, I didn’t mean to intrude if you were, um... mourning...” It seems as reasonable an explanation as any for someone to stand so quietly in a place like this. Will’s pretty sure the man must have already been here when he arrived; surely he would have heard the door open.

Then again maybe, like Will, the man simply came out here for some quiet privacy, and Will’s spoiling it for him. Will nods hastily and stands. He wants to say something, but can’t think of anything other than another apology, so instead he simply jams his hands in his pockets and heads back towards the door.

The corridor where he saw Jack and Freddie earlier is now empty, but it seems reasonable to Will to assume that one or both of them may have gone up to Abigail’s room. He decides to wait a little longer, and inquires at the nurse’s station where he might find the cafeteria.

Will has enough money for a shitty cup of coffee and enough of a pitiful, hangdog expression for a free pastry from the woman behind the counter. He takes an empty seat in the corner and bites into the mediocre danish with a distinct lack of enthusiasm.

The hospital cafeteria is not much to look at, so Will spends his time staring out the window and trying to plan his approach. He doesn’t come up with much more than “sit at Abigail’s bedside and try to will her to wake up.” He tries to isolate what it was about the encounter with Garrett Jacob Hobbs that allowed him to pull up something so visceral, so powerful from inside himself. If he could only capture that feeling, that same sensation of command and assurance, maybe he could perform another such miracle.

Lecter and everyone else at that strange organization seem pretty enamored with Will’s powers, but to Will himself they seem pretty useless. What has he actually done with them? Maybe he helped to save Abigail’s life, but he also killed her father in the process. If she ever does wake up, she probably won’t even want to talk to him.

Will sighs and nurses his coffee as long as he can possibly draw it out. But eventually he has nothing left to do but go up and face the music. Or the silence, in this case. He throws away his paper cup and plunges his hands once more into the depths of his pockets, slouching up the stairs towards Abigail’s room.

He’s halfway down the hall when he gets the feeling that something is wrong. Will’s stride increases, until he breaks into a run without fully understanding why. There’s something off about this hallway -- a sort of smell in the air, perhaps. Or no, not a smell. An emotion. A hanging feeling in the air of strong intention that’s... strange. Wrong, somehow. Will can’t put his finger on why, except that it doesn’t feel quite like anything he’s ever felt before.

He skids to a stop in the open doorway of Abigail’s room, interrupting the gaunt figure stooped over her bed.

The figure pauses in its examination of her and looks up. Will recognizes the man from the garden outside, except that it’s not him. He looks almost the same, but his eyes are wide and dark -- all-over dark, with no hints of white showing -- his face strangely gaunt and gray. He stands with eerie motionlessness on the other side of the room, staring at Will, the bed between them.

“Get away from her!” Will hisses. 

The man blinks very slowly, and tilts his head slightly to the side. “Con...nect,” he says slowly, beseeching. His large eyes are earnest. His voice is deep and earthy, like a corpse speaking from under six feet of soil.

Will can feel panic simmering under his skin. He wonders if he can kill again if he has to. He wonders if his power will even work on something like this, something that is clearly not human. He takes a threatening step forward. 

The strange man shrinks back for a moment, making himself appear smaller without actually moving from his position. He glances from Will’s face down towards the floor. Will starts to follow his eyes, when suddenly he feels the floor beneath him give way. 

He stumbles as his right foot spontaneously crashes through the floor, the wood beneath it weak and rotting away. Moments ago it was solid under him, and now the patch just below his foot is as porous and delicate as though it had sat untended for a hundred years. The stumble forces Will down onto one knee, his hands catching himself roughly as he loses his footing.

The strange man glances back down at Abigail and reaches for her face. His eyes grow yet darker and darker. On the wooden headboard behind her Will can see fungus begin to sprout and grow rapidly, a tree fungus in a series of flat, expanding discs. Will reaches out an arm towards her helplessly.

‘Abigail!’ He thinks, desperate, unfocused. His shields have crumbled around him in his panic, and all he can think about is to reach her, to get close to her and get her to safety.

“STOP!” 

A roar from the doorway. There, like a trench-coated avenging angel, looms the imposing figure of Jack Crawford. 

The strange creature over Abigail stiffens, showing a sudden fear that it had not displayed around Will, and takes a step backwards. Jack takes a step into the room. He holds up his hand and begins to speak words in a language that Will doesn’t recognize.

“Pella okamia hae meum. Reteurna hie omma.” Nothing happens. The creature still looks cowed, but it has not moved away. There is an expectant pause. Jack tries again. “M’tam o namae...”  The strong confidence with which Jack began to speak the strange words falters slightly. 

In the empty silence of his hesitance, Will feels the wave of fear from the strange creature. And in that fear there is a word. He hears it clearly, almost sees it, as though it’s somehow sitting in the air in front of him and he can just reach out and pluck it down.

“Ellestat!” Will shouts.

Jack glances at him, then smiles fiercely, his eyes glinting as his gaze returns to the creature. “Ellestat!” he repeats in his roar of a voice.

The creature lets out a strange sound, halfway between a whine and the sound of creaking wood, and vanishes. Will stares for a few moments at the spot where he was, to see if he’ll return. When there are no such signs, he turns his attention downward and focuses on trying to get his foot back out through the rotten floorboards.

A hand appears in front of his face. Jack, offering him assistance. Will takes the hand and lets Jack pull him up. The man is stronger than Will expected, despite looking pretty strong to begin with, and hauls him easily up off the floor.

“What did you... do?” Will asks, glancing between Jack, Abigail, and the empty space the man had occupied. Everything happened so suddenly, and then was over just as quickly; his head spins with the confusion. “Did you kill him?”

“No,” says Jack. “I just confined it to its home. It’s okamiai. Nature spirit. Probably has a tree or rock or something near the hospital that it’s tied to. I just tied it a little tighter, is all.” Jack stares at Will. His scrutiny is intense and silent, appraising. 

Will feels uncomfortable and looks away. He makes an effort to get his shield back under control. He closes his eyes and thinks of the stream, and is much relieved when he is able to summon the calm back around him without trouble. The intensity of Jack’s curiosity and analysis softens slightly, at least from within Will’s own head.

“It’s the graveyard,” says Will. “I met him earlier down there, behind one of the trees.”

Jack nods thoughtfully, glancing at the large fungal discs still protruding out of the headboard of Abigail’s bed. “Makes sense. It seems to have some domain related to fungus and decay. It probably helps to break down the corpses in the graveyard.” 

Jack doesn’t say more, continuing his silent appraisal of Will. Will says nothing either, waiting for Jack to break the silence and voice whatever machinations are slowly coalescing in his head. Will is sure his patience is equal to Jack; he’s never been afraid of silence.

“How did you know its name?” Jack asks finally. The way he says it makes Will feel as though this is a test. He feels woefully inadequate to it.

“What name?” he asks.

“Ellestat,” Jack clarifies. “The creature’s name. How did you know it?”

“Is that what that was? The word for the end of your spell?”

Jack smiles, but somehow he doesn’t look amused, or even particularly friendly. “It wasn’t a spell. It was a command. Certain types of supernaturals will obey orders in the language of the fae. But you can’t always be certain they’ll obey unless you know their true name.”

Will shrugs. “It was the word he was most afraid of you knowing. It was very...” he struggles to find the right word. “...visible.”

Jack snorts. “You’ve got a hell of a talent there, kid.” He pauses again, his eyes once more appraising. “Why don’t we go on a walk,” he suggests, in a way that doesn’t feel at all like a suggestion. Will glances back at Abigail. “Oh, don’t worry about her,” Jack assures. “The ‘kami won’t be able to come back here any time soon. We have time.”

Will feels he has little choice but to obey. He follows Jack out of the room, his eyes darting once more back over his shoulder to Abigail as they depart.  
  
  


Jack offers him a job. Sort of.

“It couldn’t be anything official,” Jack warns him in his rumbling, gravel voice. “Supernaturals aren’t allowed to work for our organization, officially. Stupid rule, if you ask me. We could still pay you, albeit under the table. It would still be more than you’re making now, I imagine. Just consider it. In case you get tired of what you’re doing at the theater and want to do something more important with your powers.”

Will couldn’t care less about the money, but the jibe about doing something important gets under his skin, as it’s meant to. When they part ways at the hospital entrance, Jack tips his hat to Will with a gruff, “Think about it.” Will promises that he will.

Jack departs, probably back to the bureau, and Will goes back upstairs to sit with Abigail. Despite her harrowing adventure, she shows no more signs of waking now than the previous day. But Will is content to sit with her for a few hours. If nothing else she makes a quiet companion while he contemplates Jack’s offer.

Work for the organization. The idea is not immediately appealing. He remembers the dissecting stares of eyes watching him, the interest of those who know what he is and are curious to examine him as one might examine a delicate new species of orchid. But then again, are they really any different to the eyes on him in the theater? More knowing than the theater-goers, perhaps, but less hungry for what he can give them, less demanding than an audience. At the theater he is slowly winding out bits of his soul like fishing line, feeding it to the mass of humanity that devours it eagerly along with his hook, caught enraptured by his performance.

Will looks at Abigail. Then again, he could help people at the organization. He could give something back to the world. People like Abigail. He could make sure that they were safe. He could stop what happened to her from happening to others. Whatever these powers of his are, he could find some use for them. Some real use, not just the vapid entertainment of the masses.

And he could feel powerful again.

Will clamps down on the thought. Swallows. But it’s too late. The errant idea has him now and won’t be ignored. It makes him feel sick even as it excites him. The power he felt, holding a man’s life or death in the palm of his hand. Snuffing his life as easily as one might clench a fist around an insect. Will doesn’t want to feel anything pleasurable about the memory. There’s a strange sickness to it.

Will still hasn’t made up his mind by the time he has to head back to the theater. The manager would skin him if he was late for a performance, especially on a Friday. It’s the beginning of a long weekend: Friday night performance, followed by three shows on Saturday and another two on Sunday. At least the work will give him some excuse to keep his mind focused. Perhaps his subconscious will be better at working out what he should do than his conscious mind.

Will leaves the hospital still thinking.


End file.
